


Only One

by BlueJay_Silvertongue



Category: Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Marlyta in Smallville, Slow Burn, Two older ladies proving that love is not only for the young
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 53,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26781460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueJay_Silvertongue/pseuds/BlueJay_Silvertongue
Summary: “I have a farm. If you’re here, in the States, and you’d like to come visit… I’d like that. You can stop by anytime—just give me a weeks’ warning so I know to vacuum and put some food in the fridge. And buy a turkey.”Martha and Hippolyta meet in Man's World, and they have a long, normal(ish) courtship that doesn't involve kidnapping, jealous children, or the Underworld aka The "Marlyta Nobody Dies AU"
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Isabel Maru, Hippolyta (Wonder Woman)/Martha Kent, Marlyta
Comments: 189
Kudos: 74





	1. That Lady I Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hippolyta and Martha (and their children) deal with the aftermath of a Justice League/alien attack.

_“Another successful save by the Justice League last night, the fight lasted well into the evening, and around 11 PM, we received confirmation that the alien creature was taken down and is now in custody. Herb is live at the scene—Herb, good morning, what can you tell us from the ground?”_

_“Yes, good morning. As you can see behind me, the alien left quite a mess, most of the wreckage in this area is from the initial impact when it landed, and the rest is from its battle with the U.S. Military and the Justice League. The alien has been taken into custody, and the Amazons have set up a camp for those displaced by the battle.”_

_“From the aerial footage we’re seeing now, it looks like they really cleaned up the place, compared to last night.”_

_“Yeah, they clean up nice, real nice—”_

_“Herb!”_

_“Oh, it’s all right, they’re all lesbians, anyway—back to you in the studio—”_

_“This is a family-friendly show—”_

_“—think he hit his head out there while reporting—”_

_“Anyway, in other news, a Reno county librarian was selected for a national award, recognizing her efforts after a tornado destroyed…”_

* * *

Diana is on her phone.

The alien is gone, the news stations are gone, and most of the Justice League is gone.

But Hippolyta stayed, and when the battle was over, she ordered her warriors to help the medics and volunteers who have arrived, raising tents for treating those with minor injuries, setting up a line of temporary bathrooms and showers and charging stations, firing up a barbecue so people have something to eat as they put their lives back together. Other Amazons have spread throughout the disaster zone, helping people clean the debris from their homes, handing out supplies, clearing the roads.

“Thank you for coming,” Hippolyta says, opening the doors to the van she’d just carried in, and offering a hand to the uniformed woman sitting at the wheel. The vehicles were unable to drive through the wreckage, so the Amazons had carried them in on their shoulders, much to the delight of the rescue teams.

“Your Majesty, I—I…”

“At ease, sister,” Hippolyta replies, waving the worker’s awed stammering away. The woman bows again, seemingly trying to say something cohesive, but instead, she blindly turns away and begins unloading supplies from the trunk. Hippolyta watches for a moment, then she turns and makes her way toward the edge of the camp, where her daughter is having a spirited conversation with her Man’s World device.

_No, Isabel, they will not have them now because they are out of season, you will have to… fine, I will ask, but you will have to tell the cook to prepare something else tonight—what do you mean that’s the whole reason why you married...?! Stop, I’m hanging up now. I will not be home for another hour at least… yes, I love you. Goodbye._

For all of her loud complaining into her phone, Diana’s eyes are shining as she ends her call and bounds over to her mother, dropping into a bow when she reaches her. 

“My Queen.”

“Princess,” Hippolyta says formally, but she waves her daughter up, and lays a hand on her bracers. “...where are the others?”

Her tone is unaccusing, but Diana hears the real question in her voice, and she at least has the grace to look chagrined.

“They left with the alien. They’ll assist in stabilizing it, questioning it.”

_“Diana.”_

But the superhero they call Wonder Woman avoids her gaze.

“Daughter, the Amazons are here to help lead mankind—”

“I know—”

“And we will assist whenever we are needed, always. But we cannot come simply to clean up your team’s messes.”

“Mother…” But it comes out less like a plea and more like a whine, and Hippolyta reaches out to clasp her daughter’s shoulders.

“You must lead them, Diana.”

“I try, but they are not the best with the public,” she mumbles. Hippolyta’s eyes sharpen, and Diana raises her head, as if she knows her mother is about to scold her. “But they are learning. I will discuss this with them at our next meeting, and I promise, next time, they will assist in helping.”

“Hey, Wonder Woman!” 

“Look, they did not all depart—”

“Check it out!” 

The red-suited superhero who calls himself Captain Marvel has started juggling packs of toilet paper at superspeed, and Diana sighs.

“Will you stay, Mother? My mind is never so clear as when I am with you.”

“I must lead our warriors home, Princess,” Hippolyta murmurs, but she leans in to kiss her daughter’s forehead. “And you must also lead your people, my little sun and stars.”

* * *

Martha calls her, _That lady I like._

They’ve never met, despite being the mothers of the two most powerful superheroes in the world. Martha can’t even imagine standing in front of her, what, with her frumpy human clothes, and her frumpy human hair, and her frumpy human face—but she remembers the first time the Amazon Queen had marched across her TV screen, raising her sword to behead the big purple alien who’d been causing so much trouble, putting an end to all the fuss just like that.

And she’s liked her ever since.

There’s just so much about her to _like;_ the other superheroes are fine, but most of them have strange powers or weapons, like Clark with his laser eyes, or Wonder Woman with her glowing lasso, or Green Lantern with his green lantern. But Queen Hippolyta just marches into absolute chaos with a pair of swords and sometimes a horse, and it’s normal and human enough that sometimes Martha thinks that if only she were that powerful and strong and coordinated and agile, she could maybe do something like that.

She _can’t,_ of course, but it’s fun to imagine.

Clark thinks she’s going senile, but he humors her as he plops down at her kitchen table, his big cape spreading out over the back of the chair onto the freshly-swept floor, his expression polite as Martha gushes over last night’s battle.

 _So how was it, sweetie?_ she asks almost before he’s gotten his first bite of pie. _Did you see that lady I like?_

Clark stops in to see her every time the League defeats an alien on the TV, as if to reassure her that he’s none the worst for wear. It’s their little routine: Martha feeds him food, and he’ll explain things, tell her that the brown one in Gotham was called Doomsday, and the silver one in Russia was called Steppenwolf, and the purple one in California was called Darkseid. Martha listens, but she can’t keep track these days, she's having a hard time even keeping track of the _good_ guys. 

“She was there, she was able to talk to the alien and get him to calm down long enough for us to take him in.”

The alien attacks and general chaos have gotten more bold, more unruly after Darkseid (the purple one), as if the portals he and his armies had used to travel here are now being used by other creatures. Time and time again, the Justice League has dispatched, zipping to all the corners of the earth in order to keep its inhabitants safe, and time and time again, the Amazons have marched onto the scene, and their Queen is at the head of her army every time, showing up without fail whenever they’re needed, just like the U.S. Postal Service _(neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night),_ and every time she gets a chance, Martha sits herself down in front of the TV and hugs a pillow to her chest, leaning forward in breathless anticipation as the shaky cameras struggle to focus on that army, that well-oiled killing machine of an army, and their dazzling, untouchable Queen… 

_I’m sure Diana wouldn’t mind introducing you one of these days,_ Clark tells her, looking like he’s not sure if he’s annoyed or amused by her questions. It’s all over the news, the Justice League had just fought a magic alien somebody, and the Amazons had pulled in and put a stop to it just like that, and Martha had muffled a gleeful smile with her pillow as the reporter ran down into the fray and the camera swung around to focus on Queen Hippolyta. She’d been giving the microphone in her face a dubious look, but she’d looked so regal and magnificent as she waved down the warriors who had materialized and trained their spears on the TV crew, and the reporter had asked the Amazon Queen some stupid question—something about what was going through her mind after the battle, or something—and Martha had missed it because she’d been staring, drinking in every detail, and now she finally understands what all the fuss was about when those Beatles boys sang on the Ed Sullivan show all those years ago, now she finally understands why so many of the waitresses get so silly when they see Superman on TV, and it’s because it’s _electric,_ seeing someone like that, even if it’s just on a tiny screen, ten times smaller than life, but somehow still unable to contain all that power, and all that beauty, and all that gracefulness—

“Ma?”

Martha startles from her thoughts. Her son’s concerned face staring back at her. She usually doesn’t like that Clark thinks she’s getting old and forgetful, but this time, she can’t blame him.

“I’m sorry, honey, I was daydreaming. What did you say?”

“I said, I’m sure Diana wouldn’t mind introducing you one of these days. Her mother is always visiting her at the Themysciran Embassy in Metropolis—”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Martha says, waving a dismissive hand. “Anyway, it’s not a good idea, meeting your heroes. They always disappoint, eventually.”

Clark gives her a suspicious look, and Martha grins, knowing the exact reason why.

“...except for _you,_ my little pea pod—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Clark grumbles, crossing his massive arms over the House of El symbol on his chest. But he’s smiling, and Martha reaches out to pat his hand, then she collects the plate that he’d dutifully cleaned. After the battle last night, she’d stayed up for a few extra hours making a chocolate pie, keeping an eye on the TV just in case the Amazons came back.

“Is it true that they’re all lesbians?”

Martha thinks she says this in a casual voice, but Clark’s expression is guarded as he looks up at her, eyes suspicious, eyebrows furrowed.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian.”

Martha stares. Clark stares back.

“Lots of people are gay,” he tries again, and he has that face on now, that adorably stubborn face. “Even Kara—Kara is gay, she and Lena, and you like Kara.”

“Sweetie, I’m not—”

“And besides, it’s legal now. People are free to marry whomever they want.”

Martha sighs, because her little pea pod isn’t _listening,_ and she reaches for the sponge so she can wash these dirty dishes.

“So are they?” she prods, and Clark rises, a big hulking shadow looming behind her. She hands him a washcloth so he can clean the kitchen table.

“Most of them are. Diana is, she has a wife. And she’s my _friend,_ they’re good people, there’s nothing wrong—”

“It sounds like you’re preaching at me, dear,” Martha warns. He leans back to give her an apologetic kiss on the top of her head, and she smiles. “But it’s good to hear you’re so open-minded.”

_Although I wonder if you’d be so open-minded if you knew..._

“Sometimes I worry about you, Ma, sitting alone, watching TV—”

“Maybe I’ll write her a letter,” Martha interrupts, because the last thing she needs right now is her son worrying about her. “An anonymous letter. Do they take fanmail at this embassy of theirs?”

“I’m sure Queen Hippolyta would be happy to be your penpal if you asked,” Clark says, rinsing out the washcloth and hanging it up to dry. “I mean, you don’t want to send something without a name and scare them.”

“Well, I don’t want her to know it was _me._ That would be embarrassing,” Martha says with a laugh that may be a little more nervous than amused.

“Oh, Ma,” Clark sighs, misinterpreting her reaction. “You’re every bit as good as that Amazon woman. She’d be _lucky_ to get to know you.”

 _“Lucky, huh?”_ Martha mutters to the gurgling sink. _“That’ll be the day.”_

“...what?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Martha says, pulling off her gloves and setting them aside. Clark is looking at her with a thoughtful frown on his face, but Martha just shakes her head and leads him out to the porch, changing the subject. They’re veering into dangerous territory, anyway, and no good can come from that, not even with Superman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Guess who's back from fanfic retirement ~~and putting on clown makeup~~
> 
> Fun Fact II: Anyway, hi and surprise! I hope you liked the chapter, this fic is a bit of a departure for me tonally (aka no one is dead?? how is that possible?), so I'm looking forward to the challenge, and also to exploring these two in Man's World this time around. 
> 
> Fun Fact III: In case anyone's wondering, it's been two years since BvS/JL, and the League has really built up since then.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: In the next chapter, Martha takes a vacation to Metropolis and visits some weird places :)
> 
> Fun Fact V: Thanks for reading!!! :D


	2. Metropolis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha takes a vacation.

The last time Martha had been in Metropolis, she couldn’t stay. She’d been kidnapped outside of her diner, and then rescued from certain death by a Bat. After the police had taken her down to the station, she’d sat around for hours waiting for someone to come in and get a statement from her about her ordeal with Lex Luthor’s goons, and by the time Clark had bustled in wearing his glasses and reporter costume, it had been dawn.

It’d been the longest night of her life—at least, since the night after Jonathan had died.

Clark had brought her back to his and Lois’ apartment and made her breakfast, but she’d barely been able to keep her head up, and the TV mounted over the kitchen table was blaring something about giant aliens and missiles and how Superman and Batman and a new woman superhero took down the monster together, and Clark was saying something about making up the guest room, staying for a few days, but she’d given her head a bleary shake and reached over to pat his big hands.

_Oh, Clark, honey, I can’t, I brought a chicken down from the freezer to roast, and it’ll go bad. Besides, you need to go clean up that island you and your friends messed up. You can take me on a sightseeing tour some other time._

He’d looked like he wanted to protest, but he’d shut his mouth like a good boy, and then after breakfast, he’d flown her home, and she’d gone straight to bed. She woke up later that afternoon with barely enough time to get ready for her shift at the diner.

Two years passed before she stepped foot out of Kansas again.

* * *

“Well, I never thought that I’d ever have a real sit-down dinner with a Halloween-costume Superman for a waiter,” Martha says, plucking her Justice League-themed napkin from her lap and carefully wiping her mouth. The paper is decorated with cartoonish drawings of the league members doing their famous poses: Superman flying with his fist in the air, Batman crouched down with a batarang spinning out of his hand, Wonder Woman deflecting an attack with her gauntleted forearms crossed, Aquaman gripping his trident and showing off as many of his gleaming muscles as possible. “I sure hope they don’t get wind of this at the diner. I’d never be able to fit into one of those outfits.”

When Clark had said they were going to “Planet Krypton” for dinner, Martha had been a little worried at first, suddenly assaulted with images of shooting through space to another planet in another solar system, and maybe not even a planet, but some tiny floating asteroid... but he’d donned his glasses, and they took a cab—or an _Uber_ as they’re called here _—_ down to the more touristy side of town, and there it was, her son’s face beaming down at her from the side of a building, and his giant head was right underneath the “Y” of “Krypton” and it was then that Martha realized just how much public opinion of her son had changed since she’d been waitressing in the diner not so long ago, watching as the news outlets covered Superman’s Senate trial.

Lois looks embarrassed as the scrawny high schooler in his padded Superman costume returns to take away her half-eaten “Spectre Platter”, but she opts instead to wrap her hands around her coffee mug—a bright yellow cup with the Batman symbol printed on the side—and take a long sip.

“I don’t know why Clark likes coming here, it’s so tacky,” she sighs, rolling her eyes toward the memorabilia-covered ceiling. There’s a miniature Batmobile teetering directly over their booth, full-sized replicas of Wonder Woman’s shield and sword hanging on the wall, reverently lit displays of the League’s costumes behind thick glass. It _is_ incredibly tacky, but Martha just waves a hand, amused.

“He’s enjoying it while it lasts, sweetie,” she says, giving a pointed look toward the giant plastic Green Lantern soda cup that they’d brought out with her $40 “Man of Beef” steak—never mind that she could’ve gotten the exact same meal back at her Smallville diner for a _quarter_ of the price, even without her waitress discount. “Anyway, it’s nice to be loved once in a while.”

“Would you ladies like any dessert?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t eat another bite, Lois, did you want…?”

But Lois shakes her head at the Wonder Woman-costumed waitress, and she sashays away with the tiny dessert menus and a blinding smile.

“Did he say whether he’s coming back or not?” Martha asks, rummaging around in her purse for her wallet. Lois is tapping on her cell phone, worry lines over her forehead. 

“No… I’m just seeing some tweets from Argo City,” Lois murmurs, biting her lip, but all at once she looks up, her face clearing as she reaches out to rest a hand on Martha’s wrist. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Clark can take care of himself. And don’t even think of paying for dinner, Mrs. Kent. You’re _our_ guest.”

“Oh, you know I couldn’t let you—”

“Excuse me—Superman—if you could just bring me the bill…” Lois says, ignoring Martha’s protests, but the costumed waiter just looks confused.

“The—the gentleman already paid, ma’am. He paid for the whole table, before he left.”

Martha and Lois stare at his nervous, bespeckled face, then they turn and look at each other.

 _“Well,_ I can’t believe—”

“That _bastard.”_

* * *

Martha will never get over how casually Lois just calls for an Uber whenever she’s ready to go. Smallville barely has a functioning bus system, and living out in the country like they do, you’re more likely to have luck hitchhiking than finding any sort of public transportation to take you somewhere.

But Lois just hops into stranger’s cars like it’s no big deal, and Martha is left to follow, and then they’re honking their way through the city, and Lois points out the sights as they lurch past: Wayne University, the Metropolis Museum of Natural History, the Lena Luthor Science Explorarium, the glittering harbor, where Gotham looms against the horizon… 

Martha doesn’t know what she thinks about the big city yet. On one hand, she loves the spectacle, these giant skyscrapers that seem to have scraped the sky _away_ , the carefully manicured gardens that have popped out somehow from the concrete that is _everywhere—_ as if they just brought in a thousand cement trucks, dumped them out, and called that the foundation of the city. She likes seeing the variety of architecture from one building to the next: the modern, glass-fronted stores, the grand, sprawling government buildings, the quaint little townhouses that sell coffee and books and antiques, and the little ethnic neighborhoods: Chinatown with its glittering jewelry shops and crowded bakeries and grocery stores; Little Italy with its colorful awnings, and tiny tables set out onto the sidewalk for diners, the specialty shops boasting the best cheeses and sausages in town.

There’s simply so much to _look_ at in Metropolis, the city that never sleeps, it’s almost as exhausting as it is exhilarating, especially for an old nobody like her, who’s spent her entire life living in a town that pretty much sleeps once the sun goes down.

“This is the park, ma’am!”

All too soon, they’re pulling up to the curb, illegally double parking. Lois and Clark’s apartment is right across from the street from Heroes Park; Martha could see the statue of Superman right from the guest room window when she woke up this morning.

“I wish they’d put a statue of Wonder Woman up, too,” Lois tuts as they climb out of the car. The driver zooms off almost the moment their feet touch the asphalt. “They never would’ve defeated Doomsday without her. But I guess she’s grateful enough for the Embassy.”

Lois is busy digging around in her purse, but she gestures with her free hand toward a crumbling old Gothic building down the block, and Martha stares. 

_“...that’s_ the Themyscrian Embassy?”

“Sure,” Lois replies, shooting her a double take. “Why, does it look different from you expected?”

“Well, I thought it’d be bigger, for one,” Martha says, craning her neck. It looks more like a run-down cathedral than the giant U.S. Capitol-esque building she’d been envisioning, and it’s almost unwelcoming, with it’s pointy towers and cold, grey stone. And it’s definitely less _romantic,_ here, on this noisy, dirty street, with a “one-way” sign stuck right into the sidewalk next to its front doors, and the construction scaffolding up on the building right next door, and the overflowing trash cans lined up right across the street...

“We can check out the gift shop if you like. It’s a little nicer inside,” Lois says, leading Martha toward the unassuming front steps without waiting for an answer. “It used to be an old church, and then there was a fire, and it was abandoned for years. There was talk of turning it into a museum, but the government finally converted it into the Themysciran Embassy last year. I think Diana’s been trying to remodel, but she hasn’t gotten the city’s permission yet.”

Lois pulls open the heavy front door, and she’s right, it _is_ a little more cozy inside, but Martha can still see echos of the old church foyer in the lobby, the place where people would mingle before Mass. But now there’s a big security station, like the ones they have at the airports, and Lois dumps her purse onto the belt and waltzes right through the metal detector like she does this every day. Martha gulps and shuffles through, feeling like every pore of her body is radiating suspicion even though she knows she has nothing to hide.

But the gift shop is safe enough, comfortable and familiar, with that warm, spicy gift-shop smell, and the gleaming displays on glass shelves. A uniformed woman greets them from behind the counter, then gives a double take when she recognizes Lois and welcomes her again with that delighted, _Oh hi, Lois!_ that seems to follow the popular reporter everywhere.

Martha wanders off as they start chatting about something Lois had tweeted earlier this week. There are copies of the autobiography/self-help book Wonder Woman published last year, a series of colorful picture books for children, filled with wonderful paintings and toned-down versions of her adventures. The apparel is a little tacky: oversized t-shirts with Wonder Woman’s armor printed onto it, sweatshirts with her logo blazed across the chest, yoga pants with “wonder” up one leg and “woman” down the other. There’s an expensive scarf claiming it was made from 100% pure Themyscrian wool that costs more than what Martha would make during a double shift at the diner, tips included, but it’s so soft when she touches it, she’s almost tempted to splurge, she’s on _vacation—_

“See anything you like?”

Lois is back, and Martha guiltily yanks her hand away from the scarf, turning quickly to find herself standing in front of a display of little knick knacks: magnets, shot glasses, snow globes.

“Oh, I don’t know, I thought maybe I could find a little print or magnet I could put in my house to remind me to be brave or something,” Martha says, plucking up a tiny snow globe of the island of Themyscira, and watching as the flaky snow settles down onto the plastic beach. She glances at the bottom to see if there’s a wind-up, sometimes these things play little songs, and that would be nice—but there’s only a switch, and when she flips it, the ocean glows with blue and purple light, and the gleaming city goes dark, lit only with tiny sparkles. It makes Martha’s heart ache for some reason, and for a moment, she forgets Lois standing beside her, forgets the Embassy as she stares at those little twinkling lights...

“It never snows on Themyscira.”

Martha jumps out of her skin, dropping the glowing snow globe, but a hand reaches out and plucks it from the air. 

“It is fun to imagine, though.” The hand sets the thing—it looks like a little toy against that calloused palm—back into Martha’s shaking hand, and the voice continues, “Hello, Lois.”

Lois’ mouth has fallen open, and all at once, she’s flinging her arms around the newcomer in delight.

“Diana! I didn’t know you were in Metropolis—”

“Security told me there’s a reporter snooping around in the Embassy—”

“I would’ve texted you, we were just dropping in to see—”

“We haven’t gotten lunch in weeks, you’ve been avoiding me, darling—”

 _“Please,_ you know I’d never turn down a chance to interview _Wonder Woman—”_

Martha blinks. The two women, one wearing smart casual clothes for taking her mother-in-law out for a day of sightseeing, and one wearing battle-ready armor that apparently tells of her recent return from a long day of superhero work, are hugging and laughing as if they’re best friends who haven’t seen each other in months.

“This is very cute, I like it,” the woman is saying, plucking at the flowery folds of Lois’ casual summer dress with a flirty smile. “It looks nice on you.”

 _“Stop,”_ Lois warns, but she’s blushing as she turns and rests a hand on Martha’s arm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kent, this is Diana. Diana, this is Martha Kent—Clark’s mom.”

And Clark’s mom has no idea what is going on, but all of a sudden, Wonder Woman’s eyes are on her, and she leans back to look her in the face for the first time, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing else in the _world_ when Wonder Woman is looking at you...

“Martha Kent!” Diana says cheerfully, leaning in to kiss Martha’s bewildered face. Her lips are soft. “Welcome to Metropolis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Thanks for reading! I know it's a lot of worldbuilding, but it's fun to write, and I hope it's fun to read, even though it is keeping you on your toes, waiting for a certain meeting :D
> 
> Fun Fact II: I like Lois quite a lot, but she's a little impatient here because let's face it, having your husband fly off in the middle of dinner and leaving you stuck with your mother-in-law (and at your least favorite restaurant!) is not fun for anyone.
> 
> Fun Fact III: Clark didn't die during the Doomsday battle in this universe because this is the Nobody Dies AU. The only one who's still dead in this universe is Jonathan Kent (sorry buddy) and like... Batman's parents.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Planet Krypton is from the "Kingdom Come" run (the Superman/Wonder Woman baby ending of which I will adamantly ignore). The Themysciran Embassy is from Rucka's first WW run and "The Hiketeia". 
> 
> Fun Fact V: If Martha looked really hard at that snow globe, she probably would've noticed a little bump in the water that represents the Karathen :D
> 
> Fun Fact VI: In the next chapter, Martha explores the Themysciran Embassy and meets someone fun ~~and eats a lot~~
> 
> Fun Fact VII: Thanks again for reading!!


	3. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is good ice cream, and better company.

Lois tells Wonder Woman that they’d just eaten dinner at Planet Krypton, and even she looks embarrassed for them, but when she hears that they'd skipped dessert, she insists that they come upstairs to her apartments for ice cream, and the next thing Martha knows, the Amazon warrior is packing the scarf and snow globe into a gift shop bag, insisting she take both things without paying, then she’s marching them through what must’ve been the sanctuary of the old church—it’s lined with softly lit marble statues, not so unlike the costume displays in that tacky restaurant—and then they’re climbing up a long staircase, passing several guards as they move from landing to landing. Diana takes her time, greeting all the security by name, pointing out the stained glass windows, now lit only by the faintest strains of the setting sun, and then she leads them down a hallway, and it smells like food, like bread and cheese and spices and good things.

“You should’ve come _here_ for dinner,” Diana tsks, waving toward the industrial-sized kitchen they’re passing. It’s shiny and clean and enormous, bigger even than the diner kitchen. “Ferdinand made stuffed peppers and these burgers, they tasted just like meat, it was so strange.”

“Oh, I’ve had those, they’re really good,” Lois says, eyeing everything with a reporter’s interest—including the woman. “I just wish they weren’t so expensive...”

Once, this might’ve been a corporate hallway, with fluorescent lights and nondescript carpet, but the lighting changes everything, the tiny spotlights in the ceiling that make Martha feel like she’s walking through a museum, tiny and privileged and mortal in the face of these great, immortal works of art…

Maybe Lois isn’t immortal, but she _is_ a very respected journalist, and her work and its repercussions will live for long after Martha is gone, whereas _Martha’s_ work dies the moment people cook it up, put it in their mouths.

_So farming, feeding people, that’s not useful?_

Martha shakes her head. Jonathan has a way of popping up when she’s at her most awkward, when she’s off floundering through life, trying to take on something that’s too big for her, as if to reassure her that she _is_ a simple woman, a Kansas farmgirl, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

_What if a child aspired to be something other than what society intended? What if a child aspired to something greater?_

Martha makes a face, because _that’s_ new. When Clark had sailed home after finding his people, he’d sat down with her on the couch and recited everything his birth-father had told him, and they were nice things, pretty things, things Martha had wished she’d been able to tell him since he fell into her arms, but she’d been too afraid of the repercussions: _Be yourself, push your limits, try new things, dream big…_

“Make yourselves at home!”

Diana has unlocked a heavy-looking door with a wave of her hand, and Martha gasps as they step out into what must’ve been the church library, remade now into a plush, tastefully decorated parlor, with bookcases lining the walls, filled with hundreds of old-looking books and busts of Greek goddesses, cushy reading chairs, a fridge and little coffee pot in the corner, and there, in the back of the room, a balcony that looks out over the street and Heroes Park, the steel giants of Metropolis looming in the background.

Lois exclaims that the room looks great, and Diana winks at her, then bounds off to the right. Martha squints, realizing all at once that they must’ve expanded the room by knocking out a wall. The parlor directly in front of them is warm, woody tones, but it opens up to a bigger living room with marble pillars and skylights and houseplants and climbing vines, and—

“Mother, look who I found in the gift shop.”

And Martha turns in time to see a shadow rising up to join them from what is apparently the lounge area, complete with sofas that are arranged around a gleaming coffee table. Martha stares as the newcomer approaches, then she quickly looks away, her gaze latching onto her gift shop bag. It has a painting of Themyscira printed onto the paper, she hadn’t noticed that before, and now she’ll be stuck here in this parlor staring at it for the rest of time, because she didn’t sign up for this, she’s not ready, she's not _prepared—_

“Welcome, Lois.” The shadow has bent to kiss Lois’ cheeks, then the younger woman is slipping off her shoes—no, she’s _bowing,_ and the Queen is waving her up to her feet with almost an impatient air, and _now_ Lois is taking off her shoes, and Martha wonders if she should bow, too, but she accidentally looks up, and was that ever a mistake, because people have been struck down with lightning for less, but no one warned her that she’d be looking _God_ in the face today—and the young people don’t even seem to notice: Diana is grabbing Lois’ hand and pulling her toward the fridge where the ice cream is, and Lois is laughing and pretending to protest, something about trying to be healthy, and Martha is left to stand here like a lump, and then a hand is reaching out toward her through the blur, and elegant fingers are brushing some loose strands of her mousy hair from her sweatered shoulders.

“Hello.”

And Martha squirms, but she manages another glance up at that tanned face before dropping her gaze once more, her cheeks warming with a heavy blush that she can feel spreading to the very tips of her fingers.

“Have we met?” The woman’s voice—Martha realizes now that she’s never heard her speak before, the reporters would always try to thrust a microphone in her face, and a pack of Amazon warrior would always escort them away, clearly furious that a mere mortal had dared address their Queen—but her voice is soft, and mellow, almost too polite to truly be _pleasant,_ but it’s so low and deep, filing her like honey fills a jar, or whatever the damn saying is...

_Oh, honey, I would remember if I’d ever met YOU._

“No—I… I’ve just seen you on my TV,” Martha manages, realizing all at once that’s clutching her purse and gift shop bag against her thrashing chest, as if the Queen of the Amazons is a robber with a gun to her head, and she’s trembling, and maybe she’ll be on her knees in another moment, anyway, and then she won’t have to worry about bowing etiquette.

“I have never seen you on _my_ TV,” the disembodied voice rumbles over Martha’s bowed head, like the Goddess she is. Martha blinks down at the Queen’s feet. They’re bare and tanned and pretty, her nails unpainted.

“That’s… not how TVs work,” Martha says, a reluctant smile lifting up the corner of her terrified mouth. She’d unwittingly raised her head along with her lips, and now she’s staring straight ahead, right at a dark knit sweater; standing as they are in the shadows of this parlor entryway, Martha can’t tell if the color is black or dark blue, but it looks so _soft._

“What a pity.”

Martha bites back her smile, relaxing just the tiniest bit, then she glances over her shoulder. Lois and Diana are laughing as they pull pint after pint of ice cream from the freezer, and Lois is saying something about how she’s been looking for this flavor for weeks, it’s been sold out at all the grocery stores, and now she knows why. A calloused hand reaches down and gathers up Martha’s fingers, and she looks up in surprise. Those blue eyes are kind, almost amused as they dart toward Martha’s feet.

“Shoes.”

Martha looks down again, and sees the little stack of shoes by the door, and all at once she understands, and her fingers grip that strong hand as she lifts each knee, easing her tired feet from their worn sneakers. She had briefly considered packing her heavy-duty hiking shoes for her Metropolis trip, but she’d opted instead for her work shoes, the ones that she wears for her diner shifts, because at least she knew they’d be comfortable for all the walking and standing she’d be doing on her city tour—but now she’s embarrassed, because they’re so old, and so worn out, and so unfashionable, and _God,_ she hopes her feet don’t smell from all the walking around they’d done today...

“Socks, too?” she asks, because that’s exactly what she wants to be talking about, because never in a thousand years did she ever think she’d meet this Goddess of Old, and now that she’s here, right in front of her, of course she has to say something about _socks—_

“Whatever will be more comfortable for you,” Queen Hippolyta says, the amusement audible in her voice now, but she only lifts Martha’s fingers up to her lips, and they barely brush against Martha’s knuckles, but the look she’s giving her as her lips touch her skin is so tangible and _intense,_ all Martha can do is stare back, open-mouthed, and then the Queen has given her a little smile and released her hand.

“Join us.”

And then she’s moving away, making her way back to the living room, where Lois and Diana are now sitting around the coffee table, a stack of ice cream containers piled into what looks like a long, decorative bowl of ice, but it’s _glowing._

Martha stares dumbfounded for a moment, then she shakes her head, and shakes it again, casting a glance around and seeing that Lois had left her purse on what looks like a hat rack, and she attempts to do the same with hands that are shaking, but she’s Martha Kent, she’s Martha Clark Kent, she survived raising an atomic bomb of a baby, she survived burying two husbands, she survived running Jonathan’s farm all these years, she can survive _this—_

“Come on, Mrs. Kent, we brought you a bowl!”

Martha takes a deep breath, then she inches forward, socks still on, and Queen Hippolyta smiles and gestures for her to join her on the couch, and Martha sits, and the cushions are so soft, she could just curl up and take a nap right here, but Wonder Woman is turning and handing her and her mother a pair of bowls and spoons, and apparently they’re all expected to participate in dessert. The Queen rumbles something about ice cream being too sweet, but Diana pouts, and Hippolyta relents, taking the bowl.

_All right… this one is called Wildberry Lavender._

_What?! Is lavender even edible?_

_No, Lois, this is poisoned ice cream._

_Hey, don’t blame—is Isabel here? I wouldn’t put it past her..._

“Would you like some wine, Mrs. Kent?” 

Martha turns away from the conversation to look at the glass of white wine that is being offered to her, and she says,

“Just Martha is fine.”

Queen Hippolyta raises an eyebrow at her, and Martha blushes and reaches for the glass with both hands.

“It is a sweet wine, a good match for these desserts,” Hippolyta explains, watching as Martha takes a tentative sip. It _is_ sweet, and that’s all Martha could say about it, because she’s never been a wine drinker, or even much of a beer drinker, but this one is nice, she could see herself purchasing a bottle, drinking it every once in a while.

Diana drops a scoop of lavender ice cream in her bowl, but Martha opts for another sip of wine instead, and she’s rewarded with an amused smile for her greediness.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” Martha says, feeling like this is the first intelligent thing she’s said since stepping into this building. “What kind—what do you call it?”

“The Amazons call it Λιαστος,” Queen Hippolyta says, gathering up her bowl and sampling her tiny spoonful of ice cream. “Perhaps you call it _Strohwein.”_

“It would be called straw wine here,” Diana butts in. _“English,_ Mother.”

“This ice cream tastes like a bath, Diana,” Hippolyta says, pointedly ignoring her correction, but her eyes are alight with teasing as her daughter shoots her an annoyed look, then she turns to Martha as she explains, “The hot springs on Themyscira are rich with minerals and healing properties, but the Amazons often gather fragrant herbs and flowers to add—”

“This one is called Pumpkin Cake Roll,” Diana interrupts, clearly not paying attention to her mother’s lesson on bathing practices. Martha glances back at her, because she, for one, wouldn’t mind hearing a little bit more about Amazon baths, but it seems Queen Hippolyta has resorted to rolling her eyes and pouring herself more wine.

“A little early for pumpkin, isn’t it?” Lois asks, quickly polishing off her lavender scoop before holding out her bowl for the next flavor.

“It is never too early for pumpkin,” Diana says, her voice dreamy as she scoots over to add more ice cream to Martha and Hippolyta’s bowls. “Do you grow pumpkins on your farm, Mrs. Kent?”

“Oh, God, no, we haven’t done a decent pumpkin patch in years. I remember Jonathan’s father tried a few times, and all the families who came in made such a mess of things, he swore he’d never bother with it again... I always plant a few in my garden, though, for decorations and stuff. It makes things festive.”

The room seems very quiet all of a sudden. Martha realizes that she’s been babbling on for too long about her farm, and she ducks her head to give the pumpkin ice cream a little lick. It’s odd, pumpkiny, but it’s not spicy at all, and the cream cheese taste is so sweet and overpowering, she’s not quite sure she’d be able to guess the flavor if she haven’t been told beforehand.

“What do you raise on your farm?”

Martha looks up to see Queen Hippolyta watching her, her spoonful of non-spicy pumpkin ice cream sitting uneaten in her bowl on the coffee table. Her eyes are so _blue,_ Martha wonders for second if they’re magical, x-ray vision maybe, like her son, which means that if she wanted, she could look right through her—

“Um,” she says, and then she realizes her own gaze is wandering, and a hot flush rises up from her neck. “Oh, corn and wheat, mostly, for the big crops. We—Jonathan put in sunflowers once to surprise me, but it just wasn’t profitable in the long run, there weren’t subsidies for that... tax subsidies.”

The Queen’s gaze lingers on her for just a moment longer, and Martha is feeling stupider by the second, then the woman turns and gathers up her bowl. Lois and Diana have already moved on, arguing over what the next flavor should be.

“Jonathan is your husband?”

Martha’s heart skips a beat, and she puts her empty bowl down and reaches for her wine.

“He was.”

Diana interrupts her ice cream scooping to say a sharp word in another language from across the table, but Hippolyta ignores her.

“No—it’s all right,” Martha says, understanding the sentiment even if she can’t understand the language. “He died years ago, back when Clark was still in high school. It’s been years.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” And Hippolyta genuinely looks sorry, but Martha just makes a face at her, forgetting for a moment that widows are supposed to be gracious and quietly grieved or something.

“This one is called Pluto Bleu,” Diana’s voice breaks in, a gentle hand on Martha's knee. “It says it’s… blue raspberry and orange.”

“I am not fond of Pluto,” Hippolyta says airily, but Diana drops a scoop of ice cream into her bowl all the same.

“It is not named for the Lord of Death, it is named for the planet… or maybe the dog,” Diana says, shooting a questioning glance over her shoulder toward Lois, who smothers a laugh.

“I mean, he _is_ orange.”

Martha laughs, too, then she reaches over and pats Hippolyta’s hand, seeing the look of confusion on her face.

“Pluto is a dog, he’s Mickey Mouse’s dog, do you know—?”

But that’s when a beeper goes off, and it’s loud, and Martha nearly drops her bowl of dog ice cream, and Diana is apologizing for the interruption, pulling the thing from her pocket and turning it off, and Lois is staring, then she pulls out her cell phone and starts tapping furiously at the little screen, and Martha looks from woman to woman, and she has no idea what’s going on...

“I’m sorry, Bruce is asking us—the League—to join him at Argo City. No, Mother, it’s just precaution, you don’t have to come. I’m sorry, ladies—”

“Actually, I keep seeing these tweets about it, can you drop me off at the office, Diana? I want to get started on writing… oh.” Lois looks across the table at Martha as if she’s seeing her for the first time. “Um, I can drop you back off at home, Mrs. Kent, sorry, I didn’t—”

“Is Clark all right?” Martha interrupts, because that’s the only thing she knows, all this hustle and bustle about costumed superheroes aside, she just needs to know that her son is all right.

“He’s fine, there’s just a technical malfunction, but it can leave Argo City vulnerable to attacks, so Bruce wants some extra security,” Diana answers for her as she’s zipping around the room.

“Or if you want, you can come with me to the Planet,” Lois says, reaching out to touch Martha’s hand. “I'd feel bad leaving you alone in the apartment.”

“Nonsense, you go ahead. I can find my own way back, it’s only a block away.”

Lois reaches into her pocket for her keys, dropping them onto the table next to the bowl of glowing ice, but she keeps her fingers tangled with the lanyard, as if she’s uncertain. Diana is a blur racing through the apartment, dressing herself once more in her Wonder Woman armor.

“Are you sure? I mean, I’d feel better if I walked you over.”

“Sweetie, I can walk down a damn street—why, one time my truck wouldn’t start and I walked six miles round trip to pick up a new battery in town, so don’t tell me—besides, I want to finish this,” Martha retorts, waving a hand toward her glass of straw wine, and shoving away the swell of crankiness that has swept over her—what, like she hasn’t run her own farm for fifteen years, like she hasn’t been _alive_ for sixty something years, like she can’t take care of her damn self? Lois gives a little nod of acquiesce, still looking worried, but Diana swoops down and kisses her mother’s cheek.

“I’ll be back by sunrise, if not before. Promise you won’t return to Themyscira without saying goodbye,” she says, slinging a strong arm around her the Queen’s shoulders. Hippolyta murmurs a sweet nothing into her ear, and Diana pulls away, grinning. “Lois, I’d be happy to fly you over to…”

But Wonder Woman’s voice trails off as she glances down at the coffee table and Martha’s glass of wine, which is suddenly full again, and Martha’s cranky face. Diana frowns, then says something stern in another language, but Hippolyta just laughs and waves it off.

“Safe travels, Lois. And do not worry,” the Queen says, rising to walk both of the younger woman to the door. “Martha Kent can take care of herself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: These two know _exactly_ what they're doing oh my god
> 
> Fun Fact II: Martha's going to get over her nervousness around Hippolyta fairly quickly ~~the wine will help~~. I think she's just uncomfortable in general here since she's out of her element, but she'll relax a bit now that it's just her and Lyta one-on-one.
> 
> Fun Fact III: I know most people don't take their shoes off when they go inside, but I have carpet almost everywhere in my apartment and shoes have been _outside_ and stepping on things!
> 
> Fun Fact IV: I really like the next couple of chapters, they're so cozy and warm, and I can't wait to share them with you! :)
> 
> Fun Fact V: Thanks for reading!! :D


	4. Excuses, Excuses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hippolyta asks Martha if she'd like to go lie down.

_Sure, Martha Kent can take care of herself,_ Martha thinks a little sourly, reaching out to inspect the glowing ice now that everyone is by the door and distracted. It is so _strange,_ the blocks are cool, like they’ve been freshly plucked from the freezer, but they’re not sweating, and when Martha pokes at them, she gasps, because they’re soft and pliable, like that mochi dessert they’d eaten yesterday at the sushi restaurant. She gives one of the unopened ice cream pints a little squeeze, and it’s hard, as hard as if it’s been sitting in the freezer for all this time.

“Are you hungry?”

And Martha jumps and shoots a guilty look toward the woman who is returning to the living room.

“Ah, no, we ate dinner at the… we ate,” Martha corrects, realizing that she doesn’t want to admit to this most queenly of queens that she just ate at that tacky restaurant, even if Clark does love it. “I was just looking. I’ve never seen ice like this before.”

Hippolyta glances over the glowing blocks as she sits once more on the couch, tucking her long legs underneath herself, looking comfortable and carefree.

“Themyscira has many caves deep beneath the island… when we first arrived, we built pathways to reach these places and preserve our food. But our scientists soon discovered this way of manipulating water, so we could keep our meals fresh during our feasts, even on the warmest of summer days.”

Martha tries to think of something intelligent to say, but her mind is swimming with wonderful images: caves, and islands, and beaches, and tables laden with food, and dishes of macaroni salad and potato salad and casserole just plopped down in the middle of some of these ice blocks, and she gives a little giggle and reaches for her full wine glass once more.

“Wait, little one.” An elegant hand reaches out and rests lightly against Martha’s, stopping her from taking a sip, or maybe something bigger than a sip. “My daughter… she has reminded me that humans are not accustomed to Themysciran wines. Do you drink wine often, Martha Kent?”

“No,” Martha says meekly. “It never made sense.”

Queen Hippolyta gives her a questioning look, and Martha stumbles on.

“I mean, it never made sense to buy wine, I can’t finish a whole bottle by myself, and if I went out to lunch or something, I would always drive myself, and one glass is supposed to be okay, but I never wanted to risk it…”

She casts a hopeful glance up at the Queen’s face, but the woman doesn’t speak, and Martha clutches a little tighter at her wine glass.

“Can’t I just finish this one glass? It’s so good.”

And Hippolyta smiles at last.

“You do not need my permission,” she says in a voice that almost sounds like a gentle scolding, but she rises and returns almost at once with some clear liquid in a shot glass. Martha gives it a suspicious look, but she takes it when Hippolyta hands it to her. “Drink this. It will settle your stomach. And it will make tomorrow less unpleasant, if that is something you might experience.” 

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Martha says, glancing down at the glass’ contents, then drinking the whole thing. It tastes like spicy water. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thinks that maybe that was a bad decision, that this woman could be drugging her for all she knows, putting her to sleep so she can steal her away to her little island, and they’ll do experiments on her or something… but the wine is settling comfortably into her veins, and when she picks up her glass and takes another sip, it’s the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted, she can’t believe they make this stuff out of _straw—_

“It is not made from straw,” Queen Hippolyta’s voice says, and Martha startles, wondering how much she’d said out loud.

“Then why do you call it _straw_ wine?” she says a little more rudely than she intended, but Hippolyta doesn’t look offended.

“When we harvest the grapes from the vineyards, we lay the chosen clusters for this wine upon mats of woven straw. And in the early morning, we carry them out onto the beach to warm in the sunlight; we do this each day for the entirety of the summer months, until the grapes have absorbed the flavor of the sun.”

“That is so pretty,” Martha murmurs, and she shakes her head, shaking off the wooziness. She doesn’t notice as Hippolyta takes her empty wine glass from her. “No, keep talking. I like listening to you.”

The Queen doesn’t reply for a long moment, and Martha reaches out and pats her knee.

“Please?”

“Very well,” Hippolyta relents, reaching out as if to pat her knee in return, then pulling back without touching her. But she gives Martha sly little smile, as if they’re sharing some wonderful secret together, and Martha shivers as a thrill of delight shimmys down her spine.

“During the autumn feast, there is a ceremony for pressing the grapes, not only for this wine, but for all the others being prepared during the season. My sister, General Antiope, coordinates a new dance every year, and on the first night of the ceremony, she and her warriors teach it to the others, and then there is a full week of dancing and feasting and preparations. The Amazons are enthusiastic, and the dancers change often, leaving the press for _other_ activities... but you would like it, Martha Kent, it is a spectacle, and it is uproarious at times, but it is a holy event, a time to put aside our other cares and tasks and focus on one another, and the things we enjoy.”

Martha knows she should reply, but she's busy touching warm skin, playing with long fingers and calloused palms. She’s busy curling up against a strange woman, and playing with her hands, and they're so pretty, she just wants to stay here doing this until Clark comes back and takes her home.

“Come, Martha Kent,” Hippolyta is saying, but her voice sounds reluctant even to Martha’s buzzed ears. “I will see you safely down the street.”

She reaches for the lanyard of keys that Lois had left on the coffee table, but Martha grabs her hand, stopping her.

“Wait, I… I am a little hungry, actually,” she says randomly, thinking too late how greedy it sounds. “We didn’t get dessert. At the restaurant.”

She just had three nice scoops of ice cream, but she glances up at Hippolyta’s watching face and then drops her gaze again. A beautiful woman like that, she must have _thousands_ of silly little lovers around the world, all wrestling for her attention, and she’s stuck _here._

“...what would you like to eat?” the Queen asks politely, and Martha grins, because it’s like she’s a waitress, and Martha’s just walked into her diner, but Hippolyta’s eyes are dancing, as if she knows exactly what she’s trying to do, and she’s leaning back against the couch, one elegant hand propped up against the side of her head, smiling an amused little smile at her, and _God,_ if waitresses always looked like that, it’d be the most lucrative profession in the world, because Martha’s just about ready to give her everything—

“You don’t… you don’t have any cake, do you? I never liked ice cream, not really. It has no substance.”

It’s not the best answer, but maybe the uproarious wine is working, because Martha’s mind is mush, and Hippolyta gives her head just the slightest of shakes as she pushes herself off of the couch, and she says, _I’ll see what I can find,_ in a voice that’s smooth as water, and then she’s off to find her bossy little guest some cake, and electric jolts of delight are shooting through Martha’s veins like lightning as she watches her move across the living room and into the parlor, one graceful hand reaching out for the refrigerator door, and Martha’s never done drugs in her life, not even in high school, but she thinks for a second,

_This must be what heroin feels like._

She shakes herself and picks up her wine glass again. It’s empty. _Why is it empty?_ She frowns, then sees the half-filled bottle and grasps at it with both hands, filling her cup to the brim once more. The bottle feels unsteady in her hands, and the dull clank when its bottom hits the table is strangely loud, but she’s gathered up her cup again and taking a long drink, and when she closes her eyes, she can taste all of its colors: the hot press of heat from those blustery tropical summers; the dry, dusty straw, warm and fragrant and light; the angry glare of the sun as it reflects the sea, warming the sand and those stubborn clusters of buds, the sweet, fermenting pulp practically bursting inside of the thick grape skins...

A warm pair of hands reach out and envelope her own, and Martha blinks. There is an entire chocolate cake sitting on the coffee table… and a beautiful woman kneeling before her, gazing up at her, holding her empty wine glass steady in her hands for her.

“Martha Kent…” Her voice is like a whisper, like a sigh, then she removes the glass and her hands are grasping lightly at her elbows, and all Martha would have to do is move her arms up a little, and she’d be holding her, hands clasping her waist. “Perhaps you should lie down, little one.”

“But my cake,” she says, her voice sounding horribly pathetic, but a ghost of a worried smile touches those lips that are so close to her own.

“You may rest here if you like,” she murmurs, and she smiles at the way Martha blushes. “Then you can eat when you are feeling more alert. Would you like that?”

“I’d like that,” she replies happily, but then her smile drops. “I didn’t bring any things. Except those things.”

She means to wave toward the entryway, toward her purse and gift shop bag, but her hands are grasping at muscular forearms, and she doesn’t want to take her hands away, so she doesn’t. Hippolyta doesn’t move for a long moment, then she removes one of her hands from Martha’s grip, making her heart sink a little, and she reaches out to tip Martha’s chin up, so that they’re eye-to-eye.

“Do you truly wish to stay? I can just as well carry you back to your home, if you prefer.”

“I do not prefer.”

And Queen Hippolyta rolls those ocean eyes of hers, but she’s smiling, and Martha grins back. This strange creature could’ve given Paul Newman a run for his money, if only she’d been born in Hollywood instead of some paradise island where all women are beautiful, and self-sufficient, and _tall…_

“Why are you doing that?” Martha asks, realizing that the woman is just sitting here, staring at her.

“Why am I doing what?” The reply is low, seductive, and Martha stifles another giggle.

“You keep... _looking_ at me like that.”

“You are pleasant to look at,” the Queen replies stoically, and Martha gives an ungraceful snort.

“That’s very funny,” she says, patting that broad shoulder. “Are they all so funny, where you come from?”

Hippolyta doesn’t reply, but she bows her golden head, and then strong arms are sliding underneath Martha’s body and lifting her up, but Martha hardly notices; she’s too busy giggling and tangling her hand in silky hair.

* * *

When she wakes, she’s lying on a bed. A pillow is propped underneath her head, and another is clutched in her arms; she’s wrapped around it in fetal position. She raises her head, but the room is dark, and she can’t tell if hours or a minutes have passed. A decorative vase of glowing water is sitting on the nightstand beside the bed, and there’s a stack of things on it, eerie in the pulsing light: Wonder Woman pajamas, Wonder Woman slippers, Wonder Woman hairbrush, Wonder Woman toothbrush and toothpaste, Wonder Woman hand lotion and night cream. Martha stares, then she sits up and slips out of her tourist clothes and into the pajamas: they’re soft and comfortable and fit perfectly.

_God, I might have to buy a pair of these…_

There are little jars of light set into the walls, and Martha rises up and follows them as if in a daze, and when she finds a large, echoing bathroom with a hot tub the size of a small swimming pool, she resists the urge to strip and ease into the steaming water—which _does_ smell like lavender—and begins to brush her teeth, same as any other night.

When she finds her way back to the bed, she slips underneath the heavy bedspread and falls asleep immediately.

Sometime during the night, she dreams that she’s wandering through the halls of the Themysciran Embassy, and everything is soft and quiet and beautiful, and there are Wonder Woman slippers on her feet, and pajamas with little Wonder Woman symbols stitched into the fabric, and her feet are padding softly over the plush carpet, and when she sees a light, she follows it until she finds a desk. And there’s a woman sitting behind it, and she’s beautiful, but the only thing Martha feels is a twitch of annoyance, because she’s not supposed to be _here,_ she’s supposed to be—

_Are you all right?_

The woman has looked up at her approach, but Martha doesn’t answer, choosing instead to creep forward until she can see what the woman is doing, and she’s writing on a scroll with a quill, like God writing the sins of the world. Martha makes a face, because if that’s not the most boring...

_Why aren’t you in bed?_ she complains. The woman leans back in her seat, a grand, uncomfortable looking throne, and her eyes are twinkling, and Martha takes the opportunity to plop herself down onto her lap and bury her face against the soft pelt that’s hanging down over the woman’s shoulder.

_I wanted to finish writing these petitions for my daughter before she returns._

Martha reaches up and sinks her fingers into the fur—her cheek has found something else soft to pillow against—and she closes her eyes.

_This is nice._

There’s a strong arm wrapping around her waist, and another wrapping carefully around her shoulders, keeping her from sliding off and onto the floor, then a voice rumbles softly from the chest against her head,

_Are all the little humans so bold where you come from, Martha Kent?_

Martha rubs her cheek against fine cotton and snuggles a little deeper into those arms. If she answers, she doesn’t remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: I know Hippolyta is the World's Ultimate Player™, but Martha's not so bad herself at getting what she wants! :D 
> 
> Fun Fact II: I'm sure Hippolyta was angling for some other activities when she poured Martha that first glass of wine, but she's not going to pursue anything when her subject is drunk, so we'll have to wait and see when the sexytimes finally happen (I promise it won't take whole year this time around!).
> 
> Fun Fact III: I don't know why Diana has so much merch, but I'm guessing she probably saw that people wanted to wear her symbol, and she donates all the proceeds to fighting world hunger and stuff.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: I have a decent number of chapters already written, but I'm also starting a three week job next week (it's not a writing job, but it is an editing job, so yay for getting paid for writing skills!), and it's on top of my other jobs I'm trying to juggle in Covid-World, so that's kind of why I'm sticking with the weekly update schedule instead of bumping up to twice-weekly or something. So you'll just have to be patient, but I promise the rest of the chapters are good, and there are a few fun surprises coming up!
> 
> Fun Fact V: Anyway, thanks for reading!! In the next chapter, we see what happens the morning after, and we get some Marlyta interactions where Martha's less drunk :D


	5. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast in bed ~~and yes I mean actual breakfast~~

“We’re just finishing up here. I’m so sorry, Mother, I meant to stay in and spend time with you on your last night…”

“Diana,” Hippolyta says, but she hears the reprimand in her voice and immediately attempts to soften it. “I am fine, child. Do not worry yourself over me.”

The screen flickers, and Diana glances up, as if there is someone walking toward her, but she waves them away and returns her focus to her mother. She still looks so innocent, sometimes, so naive and full of hope, even though it’s been a full hundred years since she left the shores of Themyscira.

“I’m sorry, Lena is…” she murmurs, turning away so that Hippolyta can see Argo City’s Main Hall looming up behind her.

“How _is_ Lena?” Hippolyta asks, drawing one of the petitions closer, because if her daughter can multitask, then perhaps so can she.

“She’s fine, Kara flew her over to fix the security system, and now she’s giving a briefing to the Kryptonians—by the way, did Clark’s mother return safely? He was so worried about leaving her during her visit.”

Hippolyta hesitates, listening for a moment to the soft heartbeat that is just barely a murmur rising from her own bedroom, then she says with some reluctance,

“She is still here.”

_“What?”_

“She took a special liking to that wine, I had forgotten how easily humans—anyway, I thought it safer for her to rest before departing… and she is still asleep.”

Hippolyta does not mention that Martha Kent had wandered into her office just a few hours ago and attempted to _cuddle_ with her right at her desk; Diana is looking scandalized enough, even though the staticky connection.

“You didn’t—please tell me you didn’t…” Diana’s voice trails off, but Hippolyta can’t tell if it’s because of her, or the stuttering video feed.

“I do not like this Man’s World technology, Diana, where is your Golden Sphere?”

 _“Mother…”_ Diana begins, but she drops whatever questions she was going to ask, giving a heavy sigh.

“Daughter, do you really believe I would attempt to seduce her? The poor woman could barely stand—”

“I will text Lois to let her know, in case she doesn’t already,” Diana interrupts in a loud voice, willfully shaking her head, as if to shake away the possibilities if the poor woman _had_ been able to stand. Hippolyta allows herself the smallest of smiles, because those possibilities would have been grand indeed, but she focuses once more on her daughter; she’s biting her lip in concentration, tapping on the very screen that Hippolyta’s face is apparently being projected onto.

“You must be careful, these people—Clark is so protective of his mother, she has already been attacked multiple times because of him.”

“She was _attacked?!”_

Now it is Hippolyta’s turn to sound scandalized, but Diana has hit one too many buttons on her device, and the connection abruptly cuts off with that unceremonious “call ended” beep. Hippolyta stares at the blank screen for several more moments, waiting to see if Diana will reappear, but it remains lifeless and daughter-free, and Hippolyta lets it drop back onto the desk. There’s a low rustling from the bedroom, and Hippolyta rises to her feet. The sun’s rays are just beginning to lighten the corners of the sky, faint promises of Apollo’s arrival.

Hippolyta carefully lays aside the parchment to dry, then she makes her way down the hall, listening as Martha Kent mumbles to herself in her sleep. When Hippolyta approaches her bedside, the woman only pulls the pillow in her arms into a deeper embrace, and sighs contently. She is so fragile, and so human, and so blatantly smitten, Hippolyta wants to gather arms and rally against these so-called attackers, hunting them down until they have paid tenfold for daring to lay a hand upon this creature… 

But the human woman only buries her face even deeper into her pillow and gives a soft snore, and Hippolyta slips away, gone to prepare the morning meal and wait for her daughter’s return.

* * *

Martha Kent opens her eyes.

She’s comfortable, and that’s unusual. Usually she wakes up with more aches and pains than when she fell asleep, and this… this bed is unfamiliar: the window’s on the wrong side of the room, and there’s filmy curtains up right by her hand, this is a four-poster bed, and there’s a pillow tucked underneath her elbow, and it’s wonderfully soft and made of real down by the feel of it, and she’s on vacation, she’s in Metropolis, but this doesn’t look like Clark’s guest bedroom—

“Oh, no…” she whispers, and all at once, a figure materializes at her bedside, and worried eyes are gazing down at her.

“Are you all right?”

Martha stares. And then she stares some more, everything rushing back in at once, last night, the wine, and the strange-looking ice, and those soft, meaningful touches… 

“How do you feel?” A cool hand presses against Martha’s forehead, and she brushes it away without thinking.

“Oh, my _God…”_ Martha groans, falling back onto the bed and flinging her arm over her eyes. “I can’t believe—I didn’t make a fool of myself yesterday, did I?”

“You did not make even the slightest fool of yourself,” the Queen says firmly, and her fingers reach down to brush against the straggles of Martha’s hair that are spread across her pillow. Martha shivers, but she moves her arm, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, and darting surreptitious glances at the Amazon Queen between eye-rubs.

“Are you hungry?” Hippolyta asks, turning to where a tray is sitting on the nightstand that, several hours ago, had held her pajamas and toothbrush. Martha feels herself brightening at the mention of food, and she drags herself up into sitting position, tucking her hair behind her ear as she leans forward to take a look at the offerings.

There’s a large crystal bowl of cut fruit, little fried hash browns, flat pancakes, pitchers of honey and syrup, a whole stick of butter on a dish, fried eggs, warm toast, and, smack in the middle of it all, a big slice of that chocolate cake she’d asked for last night and never ate.

“My _goodness..._ did you do all this, Queen Hippolyta?” Martha asks, amazed. If it weren’t for the cake, she’d have her doubts, expecting a small flurry of cooks and waitresses to be bustling around in that big kitchen down the hall, but…

“My daughter will return soon, and she will be hungry,” the Queen replies, but the slightest flush of pleasure has risen up to her cheeks. 

“Well, I hope so,” Martha says ruefully as Hippolyta lifts up the tray and settles it onto a stand over Martha’s lap. “This is a feast.”

She grabs the fork and sinks the edge into the cake, it’s so soft and luscious, she almost moans before getting a taste, but when she does, she closes her eyes and gives a contented sigh, because it’s so _rich,_ she’s going to have to watch her sugar intake for the rest of today…

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she replies, going for more. Hippolyta is grinning back at her, looking completely and utterly charmed. Martha makes a face, waving a hand in her direction.

“You should eat something too, then you’re not just sitting there watching me eat,” Martha says, her mouth full of chocolate cake, forgetting for a second that this is literal royalty and maybe she shouldn’t be ordering her around, but Queen Hippolyta just gives a sweet little smile and picks up a fork, helping herself to one of the pieces of fruit.

“I do enjoy watching you eat,” she says, but when Martha blushes and looks away, Hippolyta doesn’t push it, choosing instead to poke suspiciously at one of the hash browns. “I found a bag of these in my daughter’s freezer and followed the instructions. You have a strange way of cooking with oil in your country.”

“What?” Martha asks, a slice of strawberry halfway into her mouth. “Do you not have deep frying on Paradise Island?”

“We have a grove of olive trees,” Hippolyta says almost defensively. “But our oil production is not equipped for using such large amounts for a single dish.”

“You can reuse it, though,” Martha says, wondering for a fleeting moment why she’s trying to convince the Queen of the Amazons to invest in the most unhealthy way of preparing food that’s ever been invented. “I mean, at the diner, we change the oil maybe once a week, if that. Depending on how busy it is.”

Hippolyta does not look convinced, but Martha smiles, reaching out and patting her thigh.

“Look, next time you’re around, stop by, and I’ll make you some fried chicken. Or a deep-fried turkey. I’ll convert you, you’ll see.”

The Queen looks down at where Martha’s hand is pawing at her lap, and Martha blushes, suddenly realizing how suggestive this is, and she tries to snatch her hand away, but Hippolyta reaches down and lays her own hand over hers, keeping Martha’s palm flush against very hard and very _warm_ muscle.

“I would like that.”

“Would you?”

The Queen nods once, her eyes dark and knowing, and Martha stares, her mouth hanging open in drunken stupor, because she may not know women, not really, but she knows _that look,_ and maybe she’s not bold enough to return it, but she squeezes that thigh a little, just because she can, and _God,_ it’s like squeezing that rock-hard pint of ice cream from yesterday, and all at once she’s assailed with images, sinful images, breathtaking images: soft lips against softer skin, smooth, solid muscle gliding along her sunburned cheeks, prickly animal pelt dragging along her bared torso, teasing her in the worst ways possible—

_CRACK!_

Martha jumps out of her skin, sending breakfast dishes and food flying off the tray as the bedroom door smashes in, and a blue cannonball hurls into the room. Hippolyta’s eyes haven’t left hers, even as her hands flash faster than the speed of light to settle the dishes and food back down once more—they may be getting attacked or even _dying,_ but not a single smear of oil or smudge of sugar may touch this expensive bedding—or Martha’s cowering figure.

“What the _hell?!”_ Martha shrieks, but Hippolyta doesn’t seem worried in the least at the sight of a blue-suited alien standing in the wake of the broken door, fists balled, face twisted into a scowl of fright and fury.

“What happened—are you _sick?”_ Clark blusters, standing at her bedside in a second, grabbing her hand, the one that had just been touching something _forbidden._

“I am _not_ sick,” Martha snaps, flailing at his arms as he tries to reach down to check her forehead. “God, Clark, where are your manners? You can’t just barge into people’s rooms—”

“Lois said you would be at the apartment, she said you went back last night—and you weren’t there, no one was there—”

“Your mother decided to stay here at the Embassy overnight,” Hippolyta’s smooth voice interrupts, and Clark draws himself up, apparently noticing her for the first time. “She will rejoin you when she has finished her morning meal, Kal-El. Now please leave my private rooms.”

Clark stares, then he glances around, and his pale cheeks turn bright red as he takes in the four-poster bed, the open wardrobe, the lavish breakfast, Martha in her pajamas, and the Queen in her civilian clothing.

“I… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…” he stammers, and Martha waves an impatient hand in his direction.

 _“OUT!”_ she shouts, like he’s Dusty and not an omnipotent god-alien, and he zips out with nary a blur. The room is silent in his wake, then a bird starts singing a cheerful song from outside the window, and Martha lowers her hand with a sigh.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” she grumbles, folding up her napkin—it’s soft and silky and she’d felt bad wiping her mouth on it—and pushing her half-eaten meal away.

“I wish…” the Queen begins, but when Martha looks over at her, the magnificent woman is busy rearranging the dishes on the tray, scraping the leftovers aside, preparing the dirty dishes for their trip to the dishwasher.

“...what do you wish?” Martha asks as she crawls out of bed and pulls the covers back up over the pillows. Hippolyta glances at her, but she only gives the slightest of smiles and says,

“Here are your clothes… I cleaned them using the cleaning ray.”

“Cleaning ray?” Martha asks, plucking up her blouse and old-lady sweater. They _do_ look clean, not that Metropolis is all that dusty compared to Smallville, but...

“Themysciran technology,” Hippolyta replies simply, then she carries away the tray, and Martha pulls off her Wonder Woman pajamas, not caring if the goddess woman is going to walk back in on her changing. Two can play this game, if this is a game that’s being played and not just business as usual for the Amazons and their shameless Queens…

_God, Martha, was there wine in that cake, or are you just always this stupid?_

Hippolyta doesn’t return until Martha’s pants are safely zipped and her sweater buttoned, and Martha’s a little disappointed, but when Hippolyta appears, her jaw drops to the floor, because she’s dressed in her armor, her Amazonian Queen armor that she wears on the TV and fights monsters in, and it’s so _shiny,_ and she looks so good and so intimidating, Martha wonders what nonsense she’s been babbling about this past hour, these past twelve hours, because this woman is a _Queen,_ and there’s no way, there’s no… deep-fried turkey, what, like _that’s_ ever going to happen, what was she even rambling on about—

“What do _you_ wish?”

Martha doesn’t hear the question the first time.

But the Queen reaches out and clasps her shoulders and repeats it, and her voice is so soft and _polite,_ and her hands are wrapped in leather, and those are the same hands that grasp that sword, the sword she used to split Darkseid’s skull in two, and—

“I…” A minute ago, she wanted this beautiful, forbidden woman to walk in on her changing, and maybe that would’ve been it. She’s a waitress, she knows how to flirt to get what she wants, but usually her targets are grizzled old men who get tongue-tied the minute a woman asks for their order or brings them a sandwich, and this…

“Have you changed your mind about teaching me the ways of your people?”

“My... people?” Martha says stupidly, and a warm hand reaches up to cup her cheek. Those blue eyes look disappointed, and then they look down, as if they don’t want to see puny humans anymore, and her eyelashes are so long and pretty, and then she’s leaning forward...

“Goodbye, Martha Kent.”

And then gentle lips are brushing against Martha’s forehead, and Martha reaches out to embrace her back, but she’s already pulling away, and she’s making her way across the room, and there’s no door, she’ll just step right across the threshold and disappear, and then they’ll all be in the living room, and they’ll be saying goodbye, her, and Wonder Woman, and Superman, and Lois, and there will be small talk, and then more sightseeing, and everything will be normal, like nothing ever happened, and _God,_ she can’t… she can’t—

“Wait.”

The golden figure stops and turns, standing beneath the broken archway. Martha bites her lip, then starts grabbing at her pockets, feeling for something she knows isn’t there.

“I…” She’s looking around now, and _there,_ there’s a little corner desk, and a piece of parchment, and a quill, and she takes two shaky steps over to it, grabbing them both, and the Queen is at her side now, looking curiously down at her.

“I have a farm.”

_321 Maple Street_

Of course she knows about the farm, they were talking last night about the farm, this is a busy woman here, she probably has queenly duties she should be doing right now, she needs the next piece of information now, what’s the next thing…

“If you’re here, in the States, and you’d like to come visit… I’d like that.”

_Smallville, KS 67501_

Martha double-checks the address, then scribbles _Martha Kent_ above it, just in case. Then she almost drops the thing as she puts the quill back onto the desk, but she manages to seize one of those leather-bound hands and presses the parchment into it, holding onto those fingers just a little bit longer than necessary.

“You can stop by anytime, just… just give me a weeks’ warning so I know to vacuum and put some food in the fridge. And buy a turkey.”

She gives a nervous laugh, but the woman warrior standing beside her is smiling a blinding smile down at her, and it’s like staring into the _sun,_ and she inspects the paper like it’s a priceless artifact, then tucks it into her armor, and Martha gulps, because just a few seconds ago, her hot little fingers were all over that piece of parchment, and now it’s right inside that breastplate, pressing against—against…

“I shall treasure this always.”

Martha scoffs, but now the Queen is embracing her sincerely this time, holding her close, with her strong arms sliding around Martha’s back, one hand combing through her mousy hair, and she’s so warm, and hard, and _nice,_ all Martha can think to do is wrap her arms around that armored waist and grin up at her, rubbing her cheek against the soft pelt that’s hanging down over her shoulder.

 _“Well,_ I bet...” she begins, and Hippolyta raises an eyebrow, and she plunges on. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

And Hippolyta smiles back, and her smile is so beautiful, it should be a _crime..._

“No... only the pretty ones.”

* * *

When Martha finally emerges from the hallways of the Embassy to find her little group of chaperones waiting, Clark gives her a strange look, because usually it’s him walking on air.

_Are you all right? What’s wrong?_

But Martha just flaps her arms, smiling a happy little smile that she couldn’t hide if she tried.

“...I’m _pretty.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Happy spooky day!
> 
> Fun Fact II: This is actually the last time they're together for a few chapters, but I think you'll like the in-between times, there's a whole new world to explore, and a lot of people who are not dead!
> 
> Fun Fact III: Speaking of which, Hippolyta returns to Themyscira in the next chapter, Martha returns to Smallville, and everyone's favorite two not-dead characters make their first appearances! :D
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Thanks for reading!


	6. Watching and Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Superman!
> 
> ~~It's also 4k words yikes~~

It’s her last night in Metropolis.

Clark does all the cooking—apron on and everything—while she and Lois sit in the living room and talk about her adventures as an investigative reporter. The younger woman offers wine, but Martha declines, perfectly happy with a glass of sparkling cider. She’s about had her quota of wine for this trip, the last thing she needs is to get drunk and start babbling about attractive warrior women.

But apparently it’s seafood night, because Clark makes some nice pan-seared salmon and scallops, and a big caeser salad with crab meat and little shrimps, and a horrible-looking appetizer called oysters Rockefeller, which is actually quite tasty despite looking like someone threw up on a bunch of shells.

From the windows next to the dining table, they can see over Heroes Park, the little figures of people meandering around, looking at the statue of Superman and the names carved into the wall. A little further up the street is the Themysciran Embassy, but Martha knows that it’s empty except for the staff and security: Wonder Woman is at home in Paris, and her fascinating mother has returned to Themyscira.

Tonight is a little more nostalgic. When Martha had arrived and they first sat down for dinner together, there had been eager questions about life, Martha asking about the Daily Planet, Clark asking about his old friends in Smallville, both of the young people bragging about Metropolis. Clark hasn’t just fallen in love with the woman, he’s fallen in love with the city, the excitement of all these people living all grouped together like this, sharing space and history and culture. There’s never a boring moment in this city, and if by some miracle things are quiet—well, there’s always _Gotham_ sulking across the harbor like Metropolis’ teenage sibling.

But this is her last night, and tomorrow Clark is flying her back to Kansas, and she’ll take a little nap, and then go in for the night shift at the diner, and tonight feels different than these last few days, with all its frantic activity, playing tourist, seeing the sights. They sit down together, and Clark brings out the dishes in courses, and the lights are dim and elegant, nothing like the bright fluorescents in the diner… and Lois asks for embarrassing stories from when Clark was a boy, and Martha asks what it was like for her, growing up as an army brat, never living for long in one place, and Clark asks her to retell stories he’d heard from Jonathan, stories from a family that had been farming for five generations: stories about when the pig escaped and wrecked havoc in the garden, stories about when the church caught on fire, and Jonathan helped his father put in the new bell tower, stories about when Jonathan’s great-grandfather fought off bushwackers during the Civil War, stories about how the Kent Farm braced itself against the Dust Bowl in the 1930s.

Clark doesn’t talk about Krypton, or how he found his people and that long-lost remnant of his birth father; he doesn’t even talk about Bruce and Diana and the Justice League, and the wild technology they’re developing, the alliances they’re building across nations, across the galaxies. It’s like he’s trying to reestablish his roots, reach back into the past and surround himself with his history, bloodline or no, he’s still a Kansas farmboy, he’s still her son, and he will always belong when he’s with her, when he’s with _them,_ the two people in the universe who know and understand his duel identity, and his struggle to find his place in both worlds.

Martha finds herself reaching out often to pat his shoulder, and teenage Clark would’ve blushed and pulled away, embarrassed, but this adult version of Clark just reaches out and pats her hand right back, and the looks he gives her are so happy and sad at the same time, and she doesn’t say anything, just picks up her fork and eats more food, trying to swallow away the lump in her throat...

Later, when the sun has set, and they’re sitting in the dark surrounded by candles, and the windows are open, letting the cool night breeze and the distant sounds of the city wash over them, Martha curls up in a comfortable recliner, and she wonders for a moment, wonders for a fleeting second what it would be like, living here, in the big city, where she could see her son whenever she wanted, and maybe she could actually use that fund Bruce Wayne set up for her, find a nice house or apartment, and every day she could eat food that someone else made, and go to museums and sit in libraries and read in coffee shops, or go to the theater, and maybe whenever that woman came around to visit her daughter, they could go have dinner together or something…

_“There’s cake, Ma, do you want a—”_

_“Shush, Clark, she’s sleeping.”_

Martha’s not sleeping, but her eyes are closed, and there’s a blanket wrapped around her fragile little body, and her stomach is full of good food, and she’s so warm and comfortable, floating around inside her own little world of daydreams, she doesn’t want to answer, and soon enough, Clark is lifting her up into his strong arms and carrying her to bed—but he leaves the door ajar, just so she knows that she can get up whenever she wants to get that slice of cake.

* * *

It is late afternoon when Hippolyta arrives at Themyscira, but Antiope is waiting for her when she lands the invisible plane. The Amazon General is sitting on a rock wall, idly tossing a knife to herself as she watches the sky, and when Hippolyta emerges from her plane, she smiles openly and hops off of the wall, marching toward her with a spring in her step.

“What is wrong with you?” Hippolyta asks without preamble, waving away her sister’s offered hand as she tries to greet her in the traditional way of people from Man’s World. 

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Antiope replies, her eyes as sharp as her smile. “How was your trip?”

“It was pleasant,” Hippolyta says, seizing her overstuffed bag from the plane. The Amazons always have strange requests from Man’s World: those too-sweet chocolate cookies with icing in-between, those fried potatoes, sliced so thin, it is like eating salty air, and magazines, the worst kinds that are always displayed at the grocery store lines—the ones with glossy photos and blaring headlines about sex, scandals, and affairs, plastic women and their plastic men and their plastic money…

“My wife saw a prophecy while you were gone.”

Hippolyta raises her head. Antiope has not offered to assist her sister with her burdens, and she strides easily beside her as they make their way toward the palace.

“What did she see?” Hippolyta asks, guard up now, because perhaps it was a mistake, leaving Themyscira for a week, even if it was for something so precious as time with her only daughter…

“She said that you would meet a Queen during your travels. During your most recent travels, in particular.”

Hippolyta’s heart gives a lurch, a sharp knife of hope stabbing into its beating depths, but she gives no reaction except for a sharp, raised eyebrow.

“I did not meet any royalty, I was not on any official business during this trip, only—”

 _“A woman worthy of the name,_ is what she said,” Antiope continues, apparently not listening.

“...what name?” Hippolyta says, frowning.

“Woman,” Antiope says with a shrug. “Queen. _Lady.”_

Hippolyta’s step falters, then she marches on, hoping that her sister did not notice, even though she knows Antiope notices everything, in fact, she probably notices the scrap of parchment inside her armor right now, knows already what it says.

“Was she perhaps thinking of my daughter, Diana, the Princess of Themyscira, one-day future Queen of the Amazons?” Hippolyta says in an attempt at an icy voice, but it sounds desperate, even to her ears.

“I do not think so.”

They’ve reached the edge of the city, and Hippolyta stares. The sound of music is rising up from the courtyard, and tables are laid for a feast. Already, she can see haunches roasting on spits, can smell the fish being toasted in pans of oil, can see platters of vegetables and cheese.

“What celebration—”

“I called a feast,” Antiope says, sounding mightily pleased with herself. “Our sisters are eager to hear of this woman.”

 _“What?”_ Hippolyta says, flabbergasted. “I do not want a feast, I do not want—we have only just met, Antiope, I cannot do her the disservice of believing that there was more—”

“Oh, don’t be difficult, Hippolyta. The Amazons only want a story. Just tell them something worth hearing, we needn’t be bothered with the truth. _Unless...”_

And her younger sister’s eyes gleam with insinuation, and her smug expression is not affected in the least by Hippolyta’s heavy glare.

“Unless _what,_ General?” Hippolyta says, her voice low and threatening.

 _“Pickle_ flavored chips?!” Antiope exclaims instead, holding up the air-filled bag she’d seized from Hippolyta’s pack. “What foolish Amazon requested these?”

Hippolyta stares, then she sighs and deliberately drops her heavy pack of man’s world goods onto the woman’s foot.

“Pickles are acidic, Antiope,” she says with a perfectly straight face. “As is _another_ culinary staple in the Amazon diet. One that you famously enjoy.”

And with that, Hippolyta leaps down into the city, leaving her sister behind to carry down her wares—or perhaps eat them all by herself.

* * *

When the Amazons are well sated on rich food and richer wine—as well as some very _cheap_ food—they call upon her to tell her story.

Antiope had not just called a feast, she had called an island-wide meeting, pulling the Guard back from their posts all around the island, calling them to the city for a long week of food and drink and making merry. There is technology securing the borders, surveillance that will warn them of any impending attack, any unrest on or around the island from its native creatures.

The fire is burning low, but not so low that the Amazons are ready to move into the final stage of a feast—no, they desire a tale, masterfully spun and teeming with images and tantalizing details, something to settle their meal before they seize hands and begin to dance…

 _Tell of your travels to Man’s World,_ they cry out, Antiope leading the chant, and Menalippe looking amused at her side, offering no sympathy whatsoever as Hippolyta shoots a glare in their direction. And at last, she rises, and the Amazons cheer, then quiet down, waiting for her first words, her opening statement, the first hint at what adventures befell her while she was away. 

_There was a woman who came to me at night,_ Hippolyta begins, draining her goblet. Myrrha refills it before she’s even set it down once more. The Amazons rumble in anticipation; tales of exploits with women in Man’s World are always popular, if fleeting, since the Amazons rarely linger when they leave the sacred shores of their homeland.

"The Princess found her in the Embassy storeroom. She had wandered in, and she was drawn to a glass likeness of our island home."

“...thought I saw a giant face staring down from the sky last week…” Antiope mutters. Menalippe elbows her as Hippolyta sends a heavy frown toward where they are sitting beside the fire, comfortable already in each others’ arms, basking in the dancing light.

“She is a strange creature. She is a farmer, a cultivator of earth, of life. She is honest and shameless. She…”

And Hippolyta finds her lips curling upward into a smile as she remembers that frightened little face peering up at her, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and pleasure, those green eyes almost immediately darting back down toward the floor. 

“She is humble, and beautiful, and disarming. She is used to hiding her true thoughts, her worries, her dreams. She is used to being ignored.”

The Amazons have fallen silent, because this is not the story they had been expecting, and this is not the story Hippolyta had planned to tell, either. She had planned to tell them of how Martha and Lois had appeared in the Embassy and joined her and Diana for dessert, to tell her people about their ice cream and conversations and wine, and perhaps they would be amused at Martha Kent’s drunkenness, perhaps they would approve of her craftiness, perhaps they would understand, but this… this is the first time she has spoken about this woman; she was able to brush off Diana’s questions much more easily than the Amazon’s, and she is comfortable here with her people, despite her sister’s teasing, and the women’s ribbing—they are eager to listen, to gaze back at her with pensive faces, to give soft sighs reminiscent of the early days of their own romances.

“She is a victim to Man’s World. They have pushed her aside, praising her for carrying on the work of her husband, for raising a son who is a hero to the world, but they do not see her, not truly—they only see her for the way she nurtured the lives of these men. They cannot understand that she is not their support, but their foundation. Without her, they would crumble and fade into memory, into oblivion.

“This, perhaps, she has still to learn herself.”

* * *

Clark is a man of few words.

He flies her back to Kansas, sets her gently down onto the front porch, and follows as she unlocks the house and makes her way inside. Martha sticks her head out the back door and yells for Dusty, but he’s apparently too busy digging up the grass in the dog run to say hello, and she rolls her eyes and goes back to opening the windows, getting this stuffy air out of the house.

Clark stands awkwardly in the kitchen until Martha hands him a mop, because if he’s going to stand around like a lump, he might as well earn his keep, and then when the kitchen is mopped and the clothes are put away and the little Themyscira snow globe is settled onto her vanity, Martha goes downstairs and makes lunch, and Clark changes the lightbulb in the basement and fixes the blinds in the guest bedroom, puttering around until she calls him down for tuna sandwiches and a salad of some vegetables she found in the garden.

“You make sure you’re listening in case someone’s poking around,” Martha warns, bringing over a bag of potato chips—ruffles, with ridges—from the pantry and setting it next to the platter of sandwiches. The last thing they need is a nosy neighbor popping their head in and seeing Superman sitting at her kitchen table. Clark washes his hands at the kitchen sink and goes to let Dusty in from where he’s whining at the back door.

“I think he needs a haircut, Ma,” Clark says as Dusty jumps around like a fool, trying to lick Clark’s hand. Martha frowns, glancing over at the silly fluffball, and his hair _is_ a little long, especially for summer, but trying to get Dusty to sit still long enough to come at him with a pair of scissors promises to be an all-day task, and she doesn’t have the time _or_ patience…

“Come and eat,” Martha says instead, pulling the lemonade from the fridge and absently patting the side of the pitcher to see if it’s chilled enough. She’d just made it half an hour ago, picking the last lemons of the season from their tree outside, and she’d thrown in a tray of ice in after mixing it up, but... “It’s not bad—or do you want beer instead?”

“Lemonade is fine,” Clark says, sweeping in and taking a seat. Dusty is making a ruckus as he chows down his lunch from his bowl in the corner, his tail banging against the wall as it wags happily. “You know, if it’s not cold enough, I can—”

“Don’t even breathe in the direction of this pitcher, Clark Kent,” Martha scolds, setting it down onto the kitchen table with a loud clank. “Your powers are a _gift,_ I don’t need Superman heating or cooling my food for me.”

Clark gives her a look that’s halfway between a grimace and a smile, but he takes a sandwich, pours a big pile of chips over it, and doesn’t comment. And for a long while, they sit together in comfortable silence, eating their food, listening to the birds outside, the wind rustling through the cornfield, Dusty crunching his way through his kibble.

She should say something, and she knows it. But that woman, the _Queen_ is halfway around the world, and she’s surrounded by beautiful warrior women, and Martha’s here surrounded by corn and dust, and maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be, and maybe that’s how it will be, maybe that woman will never step into her peripheral vision ever again, and Martha will be left to die happy that they had one night, and one morning together—

“Ma, are you all right?” 

“I’m _fine,_ honey,” Martha replies automatically. Clark stares at her for another moment, but when Martha reaches down and stuffs a handful of potato chips into her sandwich, he just smiles and gives his head a little shake.

“When you and Lois first met, did you know?” she asks without looking up. And maybe it’s the wrong question to ask him, or maybe they’re the wrong couple, because they’ve barely been married for a year, and Martha—she’s been married twice, and she knew with Daniel, and she knew with Jonathan, but she also _knew_ them, from the time they were children, and there was no heart-stopping, breath-taking moment of clapping eyes on each other for the first time, and feeling like all was right in the world, finally.

“Sure.”

Martha waits, but it seems like he’s waiting for her, and she just gives him a look.

“‘Sure?’ That’s it?”

“I mean, we met a couple of times, and then it—when you go through that with someone, the kidnapping, and Zod—it just makes sense. And it works.”

Martha stares. Clark is starting to look uncomfortable. 

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like her?”

“Of course I like her, I like her very much,” Martha says, impatiently waving the hand that’s not holding a tuna sandwich. “I just… you’re saying the two of you just looked at each other, and that was it?”

“I mean.” Clark reaches down to pet Dusty, who has nosed his way over to the table now that his bowl is empty. “Pretty much. It just felt right, from the beginning. It still does.”

Martha watches for a long moment as Dusty eats chips out of Clark’s hand, then she bites her lip and says,

“Weren’t you afraid?”

Her voice is so quiet, she thinks for a moment that Clark won’t be able to hear it, but he does, of course he does, and he looks up at her, and the sheer confusion in his eyes makes her heart flip-flop, because he doesn’t understand, and maybe he could never understand what this feels like, that something so wonderful as love should be so intimately laced with fear, apprehension, dread...

“No... afraid of what?”

* * *

At sunrise, Hippolyta sets the invisible plane down onto the highest mountain peak on Themyscira, and she calls her eagle to her fist. The bird lands gracefully, talons clamping down onto her bracers, wings folding neatly against her side. Hippolyta strokes back her smooth head, her soft feathers, then she reaches into her armor, fingers closing around a scrap of parchment.

“You must not frighten her. And you must treat her with respect. This is not how things are done in Man’s World. She may not welcome you immediately, so you must be patient.”

The eagle chirrups, and Hippolyta gives a sad smile.

“No, I am speaking to _you.”_

The magnificent bird lets out a throaty caw that sounds more like laughter than a song, and then she has lifted off, flying into the brightening sky, gone to begin her long journey across the sea, across half a continent.

There are easier ways, perhaps. The trading of messages has not changed so much in Man’s World, at least not the traditional way, writing upon paper, delivering sealed messages into the hands of a deliverer. But Hippolyta does not want to use the ways of Man’s World, not for this. In a perfect world, she would send lavish gifts: caravans of spices, ships full of gold, silver, jewels, chests full of silks and linen. 

But this is not how things are done in Man’s World, at least not in Smallville, Kansas.

“I am happy for you, sister.”

And Hippolyta turns to see Menalippe standing behind her, her armor gleaming in the ruddy light of the rising sun. The priestess is moving forward, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on her elbow, and at her touch, Hippolyta feels herself relaxing fractionally.

“She may not respond. Perhaps she is content with her life, her place in her world.”

“And perhaps not,” Menalippe says. “Perhaps she has been waiting for you. As you have been waiting for her.”

Hippolyta sighs, but she reaches over to clasp the hand at her elbow, and together, they watch as that tiny speck—the one that represents all her hopes, her dreams, this strange, new beginning—disappears into the blinding rays of the sun.

* * *

Eventually, Martha sends him away. She has to get to work in three hours, and she wants to lie down for at least a little while before she has to be on her feet for the rest of the night. Clark looks like he’s itching to leave, and Martha has been stalling for the last half hour, putting this off until she absolutely can’t.

But she wraps up a sandwich for him before he goes, and then he’s hugging her goodbye, and she’s trying not to cry, because he could come right back for dinner if he wanted, fly back in two seconds and polish off the leftover sandwiches for dinner, and then there would be a game on or something, and she would sit in her rocking chair in the corner and knit, and he would be watching TV and drinking beer, and Dusty would be asleep on his feet, and her house wouldn’t be big, and cold, and empty…

But he kisses her cheek and says that he loves her and he’s glad she enjoyed her visit, and then she’s left standing on the porch, watching him soar off into the sky, probably off to check into the Watchtower, or to rescue a drowning family, or to save the world, and she raised him right, she did good and she raised him right, and she won’t allow herself to regret a single thing… even though raising him right meant that she had to let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: I probably should've split this chapter into two, but it just felt like these scenes were both heading toward a natural conclusion, and splitting it in the middle would've interrupted that ~~plus I wanted to see Dusty again~~. I hope you enjoyed the extra words! :D
> 
> Fun Fact II: The Karathen was supposed to show up, but I guess she'll have to show up later.
> 
> Fun Fact III: I've never had pickle-flavored chips. I imagine they're quite tangy (sour?). 
> 
> Fun Fact IV: The name "Martha" means "Lady", which is why the Amazons are always running around calling her "The Lady". I don't think I ever mentioned that in the Sun and the Moon :P
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Anyway, thanks for reading! It's late, so I'll come back tomorrow to edit for typos!


	7. Dear Martha Kent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha cleans house, and Hippolyta visits an old friend.

It’s raining when the eagle arrives.

She’d spent all day making sure things are ready for the Farmer’s Market tomorrow: making sure the boys know what crates to pick up in the morning, making sure the canopy and tables and chairs and tablecloths are all cleaned and packed up, making sure all the produce looks good and ready to go, pulling out any that look blemished or soft… 

If it’s still raining tomorrow, it might be a sad crowd at the market, anyway, despite Mrs. Williams multiple texts telling her to set aside a few dozen heads of corn for the cookout she’s throwing for her son’s high school graduation—which, of course Martha is invited to, but she already knows she doesn’t want to go, because that would involve cooking something after a long market day, and…

Martha’s already tired thinking about it, and it’s still _Friday._

_Tap, tap, tap._

Dusty snorts in his sleep from where he’s curled up on the parlor floor, and Martha raises her head from where she’s curled up on the couch, because it doesn’t sound like a person, but it also doesn’t sound like a leak—

_Tap, tap._

“Oh, my _God...”_ Martha groans, falling back onto the pillows, contemplating just sinking back down and ignoring everything, but the responsible part of her mind finally kicks in, and the next thing she knows, she’s throwing off the old blanket she’d pulled around her shoulders, and standing up too quickly. It takes a moment for her to get her bearings, but she can _see_ that there’s no one at the door, but the tapping sound is coming from the door, and if it’s a racoon or some sort of animal, she will be out there in a second with the dried coyote urine, she can’t have pests digging up her garden—

“Hoo hoo hoo.”

And Martha stares, because there’s an eagle sitting on her doormat, a real, live eagle with what looks like a whistle around its neck, and for a second, Martha’s scared to open the door, but the creature is just sitting there, almost as if it’s trying to look as cute and un-meanacing as possible, and she bites her lip, then carefully eases the screen door out.

“All right. It’s all right, it’s just a bird, and a _nice_ bird at that…” she croons, and she can hear her voice shaking, because its beak looks so _sharp,_ but the eagle just hops up onto her arm, easy as anything, and she doesn’t scream—neither of them do, and when the creature thrusts its neck out, Martha sees that it’s not a whistle, it’s a rolled up piece of paper…

“Huh. Well, let’s get you out of this,” Martha mutters, but the eagles _chirrups_ when she tries to remove the entire band, and she finally realizes that she’s supposed to just grab the paper. “Oh, my God—all right, all right, calm down.”

For a second, she thinks that this is some trick of Clark’s, that he has a new brand—it’s a bird, it’s a plane—but the minute her fingers touch the paper, she recognizes the feel of parchment, and her heart gives an uncomfortable lurch, and all at once, she’s unrolling the thing with trembling fingers, reading as fast as she can...

_Dear Martha Kent,_

_This eagle’s name is Kyllini, and she is our best hunter, strong and swift and sure. But even she cannot bear the weight of all I wish to tell you, if I were to write these things upon parchment for her to carry, and you to read._

_I wish to see you. I do see you, in all things, in all places. I cannot take a single step without seeing your face, your figure, your hair, your eyes—as if my wandering feet know that one day, these long, meandering paths may eventually lead to you. Every morning, I look out over our sacred shores to the horizon, and as I welcome the embrace of the sun, it gladdens me to know that she has only just left off lighting your world; each night when she departs our own sky, I send her back to you with prayers for your health, happiness, joy—if only her warmth and light blazed as brightly as my thoughts of you, you would never know the lonely press of the night._

_I will be in your country next week, and if you will have me, I will call upon your farm on the Summer Solstice. There is a blank parchment in Kyllini’s pouch. Write your answer upon it and fasten it to her in the same manner you found this message. Write to me as soon as you receive this, little one: do not make me await your reply—for if you wish to see me, I will allow myself to rejoice as I enter Man’s World, and not even Hermes can grant greater levity to my steps, knowing that each one will bring me closer to you. But if you do not wish to see me, please tell me at once, for I must allow myself time to grieve before I return to your country._

_I dare not write more. Please write back as soon as you can._

_Lyta_

Martha can’t move.

Dusty is standing on the other side of the screen door, barking at the eagle, who seems perfectly happy to preen her feathers and ignore him.

Martha doesn’t notice either of them. The Queen may as well have sent some of those blinding sun-rays to her, because she’s standing here like she just got a bout of heatstroke: dazed, lightheaded, and _red hot_ from head to toe.

Dusty starts pawing at the screen, and Martha finally shakes herself, reaching almost automatically for the door handle before he busts a hole in the middle of the screen. 

“Dusty, _stop,”_ she orders.

Her voice is shaking.

Her _hand_ is shaking, and she raises it, letting her eyes rove the words once more, the cool parchment, the strong handwriting. 

Martha Kent of one month ago might’ve scoffed, calling this thing a whole lot of nonsense.

And maybe it is a whole lot of nonsense.

The rain is dripping onto the porch; there’s a leak somewhere, or maybe the gutters need to be cleaned, but that can’t be right, one of the first things she did after she moved back in was install some of those new gutters that don’t need to be cleaned, mostly because she was tired of getting up on the ladder every other time it rained, and flushing out dead leaves and debris…

Martha has to sit down.

There’s a movie quote, maybe from some rom-com that she must’ve seen on late night TV, or maybe something she’d seen when she was a teenager—but it’s a man saying it, and he’s gazing down at his love interest, and Martha remembers—he takes a tiny step forward and says, 

_You have given me a hope that I’ve scarce allowed myself before._

Martha’s bottom meets the seat of the wicker chair, and the breath rushes from her lungs. 

“Oh… my _God.”_

* * *

Once she sends the eagle, she can put it off no longer.

The island is already buzzing with the news, gossip rippling through the training fields, whispers traded on the little boats that trawl the bay in the moonlight. She’s been having dreams, nightmares of a sort, and she’s never had them like this—the ocean rising like a wall, tentacles lifting the entire island from its foundation, the Karathen’s furious voice echoing across the water as Hippolyta is snatched from her bed chambers by seething arms.

_This is how you would thank me, puny Amazon?_

The last time she fell in love, Hera had materialized in her bedroom and raged at her, and all the power she had as a Queen, all the battles she’d fought, all the wars she’d won, all the wealth and knowledge she’d accumulated over the centuries had meant nothing in the face of a goddess.

The moon is still high as she eases herself out of bed and begins to make her way through the dark city. The Amazons are quiet, not even the faint whispers of late-night lovers are rising up from the shadows. The tide is close, but by morning, it will be out. Hippolyta unlatches her armor, tossing it further up the beach, then she wades out into the water, and when her feet no longer meet the sand, she begins to swim. 

She is here.

Hippolyta can feel her presence, dark and brooding and still. Usually she would be dancing about by now, surging forward to meet her with a force that almost sends her flying in the opposite direction, frolicking in delight, playful and dangerous, but tonight...

 _Stop sulking,_ she commands, as if to a sullen kitten, and the water slaps against her skin as a beast as large as an island creeps forward.

_I have heard a terrible rumor about you, Amazon._

Hippolyta only stretches out a hand into the dark depths, and a single tentacle slides around her palm, its soft cups sucking lightly at her fingertips.

_It is not a rumor, Kaiju._

The darkness is silent, then the tentacle withdraws, and Hippolyta is left alone in this cold, empty sea.

_What is her name?_

Hippolyta swims forward, even as the Karathen tries to retreat, slinking back into her hole deep underneath the island.

_Her name is Martha Kent._

The sound of armored pinchers scraping angrily against the bedrock of the ocean floor echos across the open water as the Karathen burrows into her home, then a flurry of tentacles rush forward and pluck Hippolyta from where she is floating in empty space, pulling her into a tight, tangled embrace.

_Is she like you?_

Hippolyta sinks down into the swirl of tentacles, resting her cheek against the velvety surface of the large, rippling arm that is wrapped around her chest, stroking lightly at the pulsing suctions.

_She is a human._

The Karathen makes some kind of disgusted hissing sound, but Hippolyta does not reply, she only runs her palms over the rippling muscles until the creature is calm once more. Hippolyta gives the slick, smooth surface beside her cheek a little kiss, and the mass surrounding her constricts slightly, a good sign. 

_Does she like tentacles?_

And Hippolyta smiles, even as she nudges away the sly arm that is kissing its way up the inside of her thighs. There will be a conversation, one day, between her and the human woman who has so violently shaken her world, and then perhaps, she and the Karathen can begin again, but for now…

_How could she not like tentacles? They are wonderful._

The Karathen rumbles in pleasure, but Hippolyta can feel her sadness as the rejected tentacle reaches up to brush instead against her cheek.

_But not wonderful enough, hmm, Hippolyta?_

* * *

It’s at times like these when Martha wouldn’t mind a few extra arms.

She’s not a messy person per se, but now that she’s looking around her house, evaluating her life and surroundings with almost a frantic air, imagining what it looks like through the eyes of an ancient warrior goddess, all she sees is a big, giant, ungainly _mess._

She calls her son, and after he demands to know what’s wrong, she asks him to stop by and give the house a fresh coat of paint and put up some mosquito netting around the porch. She’s still in a daze, a nervous daze, and Clark shoots her strange looks every time he comes inside to get a drink.

_Are you all right?_

But Martha’s too busy questioning everything in her house to notice: the dust-colored fabric of the curtains, the outdated floral couch pattern, and the 70s wallpaper and linoleum flooring in the kitchen, and God, why didn’t she tell Hippolyta to give her a _months’_ notice, then she’d would’ve had time to remodel the kitchen, and refurnish the living room, and—

“Clark, honey, can you beat out the rugs while you’re at it? Just make sure you put everything back afterward.”

Martha’s going at the stairs with the vacuum, and she’s never regretted getting the stairwell carpeted more than now—when she and Jonathan were married, it was just bare hardwood, but it was so cold going up and down in the winter mornings, he had bought a long roll of carpet and cut and installed it himself one afternoon, and when he was finished, he’d taken her hand and led her up, and she’d given him a kiss for each step, and when they got to the top…

“Rugs are done.”

Martha jumps, almost sending the vacuum spiraling down the stairs, but a big alien hand reaches out to steady it.

 _“Ma._ Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine.”

She’s not fine, and she knows Clark knows, but she yanks on the vacuum hose and turns back to the awful brown shag carpet she’s trying to clean—and trying to not rip it up by the corners, because how did she _ever_ think it looked good, was she _blind_ in the 70s—

She takes a deep breath, and her nose tickles like she’s about to sneeze.

“Clark.”

She’s reached the top, and somehow she’d managed to switch the vacuum off, because it’s quiet, and Superman is still standing a few steps down, staring at her like he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at.

“...yes, Ma?”

“I…” Martha unplugs the vacuum and bends to loop the wire back around its hooks, taking a little longer than she needs to. “I have some, um, business this weekend, I… if you could call me, if you’re coming over, you know how you drop in sometimes…”

He’s standing next to her now, and he takes the vacuum away, wheeling it down to the closet where the rest of the cleaning things are. His eyes never leave her face.

“Just call me before you come over, okay? If you do.” She sneaks a glance in Clark’s direction, and he’s actually smiling, looking relieved for some reason. _“What?”_

“Nothing, nothing,” Clark says, crossing his arms and looking smug. “I just… I understand, I mean, it makes sense now, I mean—anyway, if your _business_ ever decides to stay for a while, let me know, I’d like to meet him—it. The business.”

And Martha knows she’s supposed to blush and slap her cheeky son on the arm, but that word, that one word sent a stab of panic through the butterflies already fluttering around in her stomach, and she feels sick, she literally feels like she’s going to be sick, and she can’t have another thing to worry about, not today, she can’t tell him—she _won’t_ tell him unless something comes of it, and nothing will come of it, because Queen Hippolyta will be here on the summer solstice, and then she’ll gone with the summer’s end, if not before then, and it will be like every other summer romance, every summer fling; she’ll be off to seduce some other lucky lady, and Martha will be left with memories and the sheer delight that she’d had a fling with the _Queen of the Amazons—_ and maybe that’s a good thing. Short and sweet. Nothing too frightening, nothing too disruptive... 

“The house looks great.”

And suddenly Clark’s arms are around her, calming the nervous jitters that have been racing through every nerve in her body ever since that magnificent bird showed up on her porch last week…

“And I’m really proud of you.” Clark kisses her forehead, then pulls away slightly. “But really, you’re scaring me, Ma. You have nothing to worry about, okay? Anyone would be lucky to be with you.”

_You’re every bit as good as that Amazon woman._

Maybe his tale would be different if he knew—if he knew that all of this was for a woman, and not just a woman, but a woman who could probably go toe-to-toe with him, because who knows what kind of alien technology she has on that island of hers, and for a second, Martha can’t breathe, because terror is shooting through her, because maybe it’s all a conspiracy, maybe it’s just a way of getting to him after all, maybe someone put that Amazon Queen up to it, and now she’s coming to take him away—

“Maybe you should go lie down,” Clark is saying, like he can hear her heart racing, and see the cold sweat forming on her forehead, around her neck, and the next thing she knows, she’s crawling onto her bed, burying her head underneath a pillow…

She’ll take a little nap, that’s what she’ll do. And then tomorrow, it will be a new day, and everything will be better.

* * *

When she surfaces, the sun is just beginning to lighten the edges of the sky. 

The Karathen had asked her for a blessing from the Goddesses, and Hippolyta had asked the giant mother of horrors for forgiveness, and then they had parted in peace. Hippolyta needed to return to prepare her escort to Man’s World, and the Karathen needed to return to Atlantis to guard the city in Arthur’s absence. They may even meet at this human conference they are both attending, before Hippolyta leaves to take a detour to Kansas.

The seagulls are already crying out to each other, scavenging for their breakfast, and somewhere across the water, Kyllini may be with Martha Kent even now, or making her way back to Themyscira with a reply. Perhaps Martha had been overjoyed when the eagle alighted upon her doorstep, or perhaps she had chased the bird away with a broom, like the aproned housewives always do in the movies. 

Hippolyta latches her armor back into place as she gazes out over the waves. The tide is out, and further down the beach, she can see the dark figures of several of her sisters searching amongst the tidepools, gathering food, shells, objects of beauty. The boats are already making their way toward the docks, their bellies full of the morning’s catch.

 _Dear Martha Kent,_ she had written, and then she had told her things, things from her heart—but there is nothing to be done for that now. If the wind is good, and the goddesses are kind, she will have her answer soon enough, and until then, there is work to be done, plans to be drawn, provisions to prepare for a trip to Man's World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: It's so late, I have no fun facts! (I might add some in the morning, we'll see). Thanks for reading!! :D
> 
> Wait, I do have one, and it's that I think the Karathen is a species, so I've decided Kaiju is her name, or at least Hippolyta's nickname for her. I know that the Kaiju are also a species, but fight me :P


	8. Two Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days before Summer Solstice.

Diana asks her what is wrong, but Hippolyta just brushes her questions off, feigning focus on the conference, the meetings, the politics. There are men everywhere, and apparently they don’t realize that Amazons have remarkably good hearing, because their _comments…_

_They’re just children, Mother._

They may just be children, but even children have manners when they have been guided well.

It is a meeting of human leaders and aliens in one of the great cities in Man’s World, and many of Diana’s colleagues are there, including the King of Atlantis. He is stoic and gruff in public, but when the cameras are off, and they’re amongst their own company, he moves through the crowd, delivering bone-crushing hugs, whooping in delight when he spots Diana and his other friends from the League, acting nothing like his calm, collected mother.

Hippolyta hasn’t seen Atlanna since their last tryst on the beach in the center of the earth, but they say that Arthur freed his mother and the Karathen on the same day he claimed his throne, and...

_All that I love, in time, falls away. In peace, in war._

The Amazons are given lavish chambers in the best hotel Man’s World has to offer, and every night, Diana invites her friends to her suite, and they sit together in the living room, drinking wine, eating ice cream, laughing and making merry. Isabel has little patience for such things, more at home in the cold meeting rooms, the subtle workings of a whisper campaign, the art of backstabbing with a smile. But not even she can resist when Wonder Woman offers her a kiss and a glass of amber brandy, and when a jetlagged Lena Luthor gives the correct password at the door and stumbles in, it is Isabel, not Diana, who rises and pulls her forward, waving at one of the assistants and ordering a full dinner.

 _Would Martha Kent be comfortable in a room like this?_ Hippolyta wonders to herself as she sips at a bitter glass of wine, nodding politely at the costumed superheroes who are plying her with awed questions. Perhaps the human woman would be with the group of female superheroes on the long, plush couches, laughing along as Diana throws back her head at something Supergirl just said. Or perhaps she would be cheering with Myrrha and Egeria as Arthur and Artemis arm-wrestle at the dinner table, or she might be at the bar, where Scott Free and Barda are sitting with Zatanna and Napi and talking about inter-planetary education, or maybe she’d be trying to coax Jason Blood out of his shell—and the corner where he’s slouched, reading a book and ignoring everyone.

Maybe she’d be in none of these places, and they’d be in their own rooms, sitting together, watching the gleaming skyline, drinking wine, whispering sweet nothings...

Hippolyta shakes her head and rises to her feet. Nothing good can come from musings such as these, and Diana is already suspicious; she can feel her daughter’s gaze on her as she makes her way across the room, but she only raises her head, successfully avoiding those watching eyes as she reaches for the sliding glass door, seeking escape, solitude.

But no, the goddesses cannot even grant her that, because already she can see him, leaning heavily against the railing, looking moody and unfriendly. A wave of fresh cigarette smoke washes over her as she slides open the door.

“Exorcist.”

He glances over his shoulder at her, and she waits. And for a moment, they stare at each other, then he sighs.

“Oh, don’t let me scare you away, Your Majesty,” he grumbles, waving a hand and moving to the corner of the balcony so then they can stand as far apart as possible. Hippolyta frowns at his tone, but she moves forward, silently closing the door behind her.

The city is glittering, but the sky is murky with smog, and the stars are hidden. For a long moment, they simply stand together, listening to the muffled sounds of the traffic below, and the muted roar of the party just a few yards away.

 _“Hell,_ does everyone else hate these kinds of things, or is it just me?”

John Constantine blows a cloud of smoke toward her, but Hippolyta doesn’t look in his direction.

“If you hate it, why are you here? You were not invited,” she says calmly. The exorcist lets out a dry laugh, but they’re both smiling, and the music and laughter spilling out from the hotel room sounds a little less lonely.

“How is your shark?”

“Him? We broke up ages ago. It’s probably for the best, since Aquaman can, you know, control all sea life.”

Hippolyta glances over her shoulder at where Arthur and Artemis are downing a line of shots, their hands still locked together, muscles bulging. The other Amazons are goading them on, fists in the air.

“What about you, how’s your octopus?” Constantine hasn’t moved, but he’s facing her now, as if he’s accepted that they might as well talk if they’re out here.

“She is a _Karathen,”_ Hippolyta scolds, but she knows enough about this man to know he doesn’t care, and he also doesn’t especially care about her dalliances with the mother of horrors. “And she is busy protecting her kingdom.”

It’s silent between them once more, silent except for the rumble of distant airplanes, the soft whine from the slow crawl of cars below, sirens from emergency vehicles, angry drivers honking their horns. There’s a construction crew doing some work on the street a few blocks away, their orange vests blinding underneath their floodlights, and across the way, the light just went out in one of the windows—someone finally calling it a day in the office, or perhaps someone settling down early for the night...

“Cigarette?”

She’s already waving it away before he’s even reached into his coat.

“You are lighting your own path to the Underworld, Exorcist.”

“Well, maybe I like tempting the devil. _Someone_ has to do it,” he retorts, his words muffled as he cups his hands around the cigarette in his mouth, a tiny flame leaping up with a snap of his fingers. Hippolyta watches as he takes a long drag, head sagging back against the wall with relief, one hand gripping the edge of the glass balcony.

“Have you ever seduced an American?” she says abruptly. He looks surprised for a moment, but he doesn’t comment, just tosses his spent cigarette over the edge of the balcony, ignoring Hippolyta’s glare.

“I suppose, if the Old Man counts. He’s more Zee’s boyfriend than mine, though,” he says, casually jerking his head toward the glass doors, toward the vague direction of Napi and Zatanna. “Why?”

Hippolyta turns away to glares out over the smoggy city, wondering for a moment if she’s really this desperate, then she reaches into her armor and produces a piece of parchment.

“Read this.”

Constantine makes a face, but his curiosity apparently gets the better of him, because he lopes forward and plucks the paper from her hand.

_“Dear Queen Hippolyta. Come at sunset. I’ll have dinner waiting. I also think of you. -M.”_

“Huh. I didn’t know you were fucking the head of MI6.”

Hippolyta stares, but he just flips the parchment over, as if looking for an address, but when he finds no other clues, he grumbles to himself and reads the blocky print again.

“I mean, what is this, a telegram? It’s so _choppy.”_

“I did not ask you to judge it,” Hippolyta says, snatching it back and tucking it safely away once more. “I only—these people, do they not express themselves with words?”

“It sounds fine to me,” John says, giving a sideways look toward where the parchment just disappeared. “But I’m a man of few words, myself. And, you know. A _man.”_

Hippolyta sighs, and Constantine raises his hands in mock surrender.

“All right, _fine,”_ he says, reaching into his jacket for another cigarette—his third since she wandered out onto this balcony. “This person—a woman, I presume?—this _woman_ is probably just intimidated. Americans like their women in the kitchen making sandwiches, not… beheading giant bloody aliens on the telly.”

Hippolyta scoffs, but the exorcist is not finished yet.

“Besides, no one writes love letters anymore. The art of the letter died with the invention of the ballpoint pen.”

“John, you _ass,_ I said no smoking—oh! Your Majesty, I didn’t see you there, I…” Zatanna Zatara drops into an awkward curtsy, but Hippolyta impatiently waves her back up.

“At ease, child.”

“Actually, you might be useful, Zee. Her Royal Highness would like to know what Americans are like, and since you’ve zipped up and down the country—”

“Leave us, Exorcist.”

“Well, pardon _me,_ I believe I was here first…” But he turns on his heel like a dancer, tucking his still-lit cigarette into his jacket, then he waltzes back into the party, leaving the two women alone. Zatanna watches him go, then she turns to look at Hippolyta, her adorable showman’s face confused.

“What do you see in that man?” Hippolyta asks, and Zatanna’s blush is visible even in the dark. 

“Hell if I know,” she mumbles, then her head jerks up. “That is—ma’am. Your Majesty—”

“Relax, magician,” Hippolyta sighs, beckoning her forward from where she’s still standing awkwardly by the door. “Tell me what you know of Kansas.”

“Kansas? That’s Superman’s turf.” 

Hippolyta doesn’t give an answer to this, and Zatanna stumbles on.

“I mean, there’s not much to do there. They have the biggest ball of twine. And this really neat library that looks like it was built from giant books—”

“And the people?”

“The people—there’s good people and bad people, just like any other place, I guess. I can’t really remember anything specific to Kansas, all the states tend to blend together in the middle, especially on tour…”

Hippolyta stares steadily out at her from the shadows, her gaze unwavering. The magician has pulled her long hair over her shoulder so she can fiddle nervously with the thick braid.

“I mean, there were some people who boycotted the tour, since it was magic. But that’s just part of life, people are always suspicious of things, new things. You saw what they did to Superman.”

Hippolyta watches her shift nervously from foot to foot, then she gives a small smile and reaches out to brush her fingertips over her braid.

“Thank you.”

Zatanna stares, then seems to catch herself, and she bobs her head, then makes her way back to the party, half-bowing the whole way, careful to not turn her back. But Hippolyta stays on the balcony, standing alone, watching as the moon struggles to shine through the heavy layer of smog… 

And that’s how Diana finds her several minutes later, a cup of hot tea in her hands.

* * *

Once the house is clean, she _does_ feel a little better.

Besides, she’s been seeing Queen Hippolyta on the television a lot lately; she and Diana and a pack of other Amazons are at some world peace conference in Europe, and when Martha can _see_ her and watch her walking around with all the suited men and important people, she feels better.

_It’s not a trap. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s just a woman._

Two days before Hippolyta is scheduled to arrive, Martha drives down to Wichita, praying that the off day and early hour will mean she won’t see anyone she knows. She’s not brave enough to sneak into one of the adult stores in the city, but there’s a lingerie store in the mall, and it’s been years and years since she’s had to go to a place like that, but all she has are old lady nightgowns, and if that golden armor is any indication, Queen Hippolyta is no stranger to knowing what makes her look good, and maybe Martha’s misread the entire situation and the Queen really does just want a taste of her fried chicken, but she wants to be prepared, just in case. Anyway, it will be fun, and it will be nice to actually have a reason to go into a shop like that, and if she has to, she can pretend she’s shopping for a bridal shower or something.

Still, she’s glad that the store is practically empty when she goes in. The giant pin-ups plastered onto the walls and the sexy mannequins littered around the store still make her nervous, but the store attendants and the other two shoppers—they look like high school girls—mostly ignore her. It’s almost summer, and there’s a big swimsuit sale happening, and Martha can’t even remember the last time she’s been in a swimming pool, or even the lake. 

When she’d gotten engaged to Daniel, she and Laura Lang had driven down to the city and found a place just like this, and Martha had stared stupidly at the displays as Laura danced around the shop and threw lingerie into her arms. Now, Daniel and Laura are both dead, and Martha…

Well, she’s not nineteen anymore.

She finds some “safe” things: silky night robes, a satin pajama set, fuzzy slippers—and then under all that, she buries some other things that she snatches from the shelves, barely stopping to look at them. The attendant outside the dressing rooms asks for her number of items in a too-friendly voice, and then Martha shuts the door and eases down onto the hard bench, wincing at the dim, decidedly pink light filling the tiny room. There’s loud, obnoxious pop music booming out from a speaker in the ceiling right above Martha’s head, and apparently it’s supposed to be sexy or encourage spending or something, but she’d heard more then her share of _that_ when she worked at Sears, and now it’s just making her irritated and jittery as she digs into her basket, lifting out the pieces she’d hidden at the bottom.

 _I wish to see you,_ the Queen had said, and if that’s what she wants… then Martha is going to give her something to look at.

* * *

“I hear you’re holding court out here.”

Hippolyta only raises an eyebrow, keeping her face decidedly neutral, but she takes the cup of tea and kisses her daughter’s forehead in thanks, pulling her close with her free arm.

“Won’t you tell me what’s wrong, Mother? I hate seeing you like this.”

Hippolyta grimaces and takes a long sip, stalling for time, then she sets aside the cup so then she can wrap both arms around her sweet daughter.

“Oh, my little sun and stars…”

And for a long moment, she considers speaking, and Diana would understand, she might even be happy for her—but she doesn’t speak. Perhaps one day, she will tell her everything, perhaps one day, there will be things to tell, but today... Hippolyta bends to kiss her daughter’s cheek.

“If all goes well this weekend, I will tell you.”

Diana makes a face.

“And if all does not go well?”

“Then I shall retreat to my island paradise and never show my face again in Man’s World.”

“You’re being dramatic, Mother.”

But Hippolyta just smiles and brushes her daughter’s hair out of her face.

“I’m going to rest, darling. I will see you and Isabel in the morning before we leave for the States.”

* * *

On her way back from the city, Martha stops by one of the local butchers, and she ends up getting into a _very_ heated argument with the owner of the shop when he informs her that turkeys are out of season.

_Come back in the Fall! We’ll have them by Labor Day, but not in the middle of June!_

They yell good-naturedly at each other for a while longer, but Martha’s genuinely disappointed when she leaves with several chicken quarters instead of the promised turkey. What if that was the reason why Hippolyta was so eager to visit all along?

_Maybe she’ll have to come back, then._

Martha grins to herself, and the swell of worry in her stomach abates, just a little as she pulls up to the farm. Dusty comes charging around the house toward her, and she yells at him, because there will be food enough this weekend, food enough for an _army,_ and it’s so soon, it’s _soon,_ and everything is on schedule, she has her chicken, and she has her menu, and she has her sexy outfits, but she’s nervous, because it feels like her entire future is hinging on the next few days…

Dusty tears into the house ahead of her, and for a second Martha wonders if she should keep him outside for the weekend, because she doesn’t know how Amazon Queens feel about dogs, maybe Amazon Queens only like useful animals like messenger eagles, she can’t remember if Hippolyta had mentioned any pets when they were sitting on that couch and drinking wine together—

Martha takes a deep breath and sets her bags onto the counter.

_Just two more days. Two more days, and everything will be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Two more days is when you're getting the next chapter! :D This was one was kind of just a filler chapter, also the Constantine scene kind of ran away from me, but hey, he's a fun character to write.
> 
> Fun Fact II: Anyway, things finally heat up in the next chapter, and when I say heat up, I mean the oven, and also the skillet for frying chicken.
> 
> Fun Fact III: I'm LATE on review replies because I'm still trying to wrap up this temp job, but it will be over tomorrow! And then I will ~~take a nap~~ have free time again!
> 
> Fun Fact IV: I don't hate ballpoint pens, but I don't think I could ever write a love letter with one, they have absolutely NO character! :P
> 
> Fun Fact V: Anyway, thanks for reading!! See you on Wednesday night!


	9. Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S TODAY

On Fridays, there’s a group of seniors who use the church fellowship hall for social activities, and Martha likes to go down and supervise with Father Leone and Helen Ross, pouring lemonade, passing around trays of cookies and brownies that the old folks probably shouldn’t be eating.

But this week is different for reasons she can’t explain, so Martha just sends an apologetic text to Daniel Leone on Thursday night to let him know she can’t make it, and then she goes back to staring at her reflection in the big bathroom mirror. She’d been moisturizing her face all week, and the Martha Kent staring back at her now looks flushed and nervous. She’s going to go to bed early, and then she’s going to wake up refreshed and she’s going to cook up a storm, and everything will go perfectly, and the sun will sink into the horizon, the doorbell will ring, and there will be a beautiful woman standing out on the porch, and maybe she’ll have a bottle of wine in her hands, and hopefully she’ll be smiling…

But then Martha gets into bed, and she can’t sleep, because all she can think is that in less than twenty-four hours, _she’ll_ be here, and maybe she’ll be gone, maybe she’ll leave after dinner, but in less than a day, she would’ve been here, in her house, eating her food, beautiful and dignified, and talking with that voice, and looking at her with those eyes, and…

And then hours have passed, and all Martha’s done is tossed and turned in this sticky bog of anxiety.

Martha flicks on the light and groans as she looks at the clock. It’s almost midnight, and she can’t be awake, she needs to get up early tomorrow so she can finish all her chores in time to start cooking, and besides, she needs her _beauty sleep,_ this is the first date she’s had since marrying Jonathan, and God knows how long ago _that_ was.

Martha drags herself up into sitting position and opens the nightstand drawer, telling herself that she’s just going in to get the sleeping pills, but her fingers close around parchment instead, and she finds herself looking for what feels like the hundredth time at that note, that beautiful little note from the messenger eagle, and all of its beautiful words… 

_I see you in all things, in all places._

_I see you, too,_ Martha wants to whisper back. _I think I’ve been seeing you for a long time, before I even knew what you looked like. Before I even knew who or what you were._

But the idea of telling that formidable woman anything like this seems terrifying, mortifying. No, Martha will have to tell her these things in other ways, by cooking her the most delicious food she knows how to make, by scouring her entire house and making it as beautiful as possible, by moisturizing her skin and dressing up her old human body so then she’s pleasing to look at, because that’s what humans are supposed to do in the presence of a god: cleanse themselves, purify themselves, prostrate themselves…

Dusty snorts in his sleep, but Martha’s already settled comfortably back onto the pillows, that little scrap of parchment still clutched in her hands, resting against the surface of her beating heart.

* * *

The next day is a disaster.

One of the tires on the truck apparently decided to go flat overnight, and Martha just doesn’t feel like patching a tire today, so she gets out the jack and the spare, and as she’s jacking up the car, she pulls something in her back, and she’s pulled her back before, but it’s never felt like _this,_ and she has to lie down on the grass for a bit, and Dusty comes over and licks her face, but she just groans and covers her eyes with her arm, except that makes her back hurt even _more._ She’s never felt weaker and more unworthy in her life, and maybe Queen Hippolyta will arrive and find her like this, and she’ll carry her inside and nurse her like she’s an old woman… it’s not a horrible thought, but it’s also not what Martha had in mind.

_Okay, Martha, just focus on breathing, and every second means it’s closer to getting up time._

It feels like forever, but eventually, the sheer blaze of pain numbs enough for her to imagine moving, and Martha crawls to her feet, careful to not put any stress on that side of her body, and then she limps inside and starts the recovery routine: painkiller, ice, couch.

Maybe she won’t do any chores today, maybe she’ll just relax for the morning, and then she can focus on dinner all afternoon. Dusty is gnawing loudly on a bone by the back door, but Martha doesn’t want to get up from the couch unless she has to. She’d just given him breakfast an hour ago, he should be fine, and if not, he can always barrel outside through the dog door, and maybe it’s the pills talking, but this couch is so comfortable, it must’ve been all that pillow fluffing she did this week, or maybe it’s because she was so groggy when she woke up, and she can’t move for another hour at least, so she might as well close her eyes…

_Don't worry, little one... I'll protect you now. You will never feel the cold press of loneliness again._

_Is that what they're calling you these days?_

_No, puny human... they call me a Goddess—that is, if they can speak at all._

_Hmm. And what makes YOU not able to speak?_

_When little humans do nice things._

_...nice things, huh?_

_Of course—cooking, cleaning, wearing enticing little clothes—_

_You know, sometimes Goddesses need to EARN things, they need to earn their followers' devotion. What blessings are you planning on raining down over the puny mortals?_

_I'm sure you'll think of something._

Dusty barks, and Martha jerks out of her daydream. The pain in her back is now a dull throb, and nearly an hour has passed. From the couch, she can see the little mail truck pulling up to their mailbox, and Dusty wants to go and chase after the poor man. The TV is on, and a reporter is talking about the Amazons, and there’s footage of Wonder Woman and Queen Hippolyta walking through the halls of some important looking building, and Martha carefully pulls herself up into a sitting position to watch. The ice pack has melted, leaving a wet puddle on her skin, but she’s too busy staring at the two warriors to notice. They look so _good,_ tall and solemn and untouchable, completely ignoring the reporters and photographers scurrying around them, taking pictures, asking questions, and they’ve reached a podium, and Diana is saying something about peace and alliances and borders, and Hippolyta is gazing calmly out over the crowd, and then Martha’s heart leaps up unto her throat, because she’s looking directly at the camera, looking directly at _her,_ as if she knows Martha is watching on her TV, and the corner of her lip curls up into the tiniest smile, and Diana is still talking, passionately saying something about how the Amazons—

* * *

“—are not here to police Man’s World, neither are we here as your clean-up crew. We are here as a neutral force, here to encourage peace, equality, and the right for all people to live with dignity and hope. We do not fight for any single country, but instead, we fight to protect the innocents around the world. Our choice to build an Embassy in the United States should not be seen as a sign of military alliance with the American government, but as an agreement that we both strive for these goals.”

Hippolyta waits patiently as Diana takes a few questions, calling the reporters by name, and then the press conference is over, and they’re walking together through the doors of the Themysciran Embassy, Diana waving cheerfully over her shoulder at her adoring fans lining the sidewalk.

“I think that went well, but I wish—” she begins, but all at once, her team is surrounding her, thrusting papers at her, tasks left unfinished while she was at her press conference.

_Madame Ambassador, if you could sign these forms so I can send them out before tonight—_

_Just announced, the Metropolis Zoo is naming its new educational building after you, won’t be finished for two years, at least, do you want to issue—_

_Jonah, send out the press release for the new tours tomorrow morning—_

_The Justice League is being asked for a statement, Batman is requesting a meeting of at least four members—_

_We’ll have three more for dinner, if that’s all right with you, Diana—_

“Of course, Peter, the more the merrier, and you must stay, too, Mother, Ferdinand is making—”

But Diana is suddenly distracted by the sight of two little boys running down the hallway toward her, and they’re dressed in their school uniforms, and they’re beaming with that special kind of happiness that only comes on Fridays, and she’s laughing in delight and kneeling down to scoop them up into her arms, and the bald man from Diana’s team is rolling his eyes, and smiling as he says something about how he _should’ve known they were going for her and not me…_

And they’re all heading for the dining room, and Ferdinand is cooking up a storm, and it smells delicious even from here, and soon they’ll all be sitting down for dinner together and breathing a collective sigh of relief that they’d made it through one more week, and Hippolyta pauses for a moment, watching as the team moves ahead, moving further up the hall, chattering merrily… and maybe Diana won’t notice if she slipped away, maybe it would save the awkward conversation, and she would just assume that her mother returned to Themyscira, no questions asked, perhaps that’s for the best—

 _“Stay,_ Mother, Isabel is flying in once she finishes teaching, she’ll be here for the whole weekend. It’s been so long since we’ve all been together and unhampered.”

Diana had noticed her lingering figure and doubled back to fling her arms around her, pressing her cheek teasingly up against her mother’s broad shoulder, giving her those puppy eyes that she makes when she wants something, and Hippolyta wants to scold her because she’s a _grown woman,_ she has no business begging like this—

“I’m sorry, Diana, I cannot stay,” Hippolyta says, and even she’s surprised at the regret in her voice as she reaches up to brush Diana’s hair out of her eyes, bending to press a chaste kiss to the corner of her daughter’s pouting mouth. “Today was wonderful, to see you doing such good work in Man’s World…”

“My Queen,” Diana murmurs, and there’s a delighted clamor from the end of the hall as the group arrives in the kitchens and sees the offerings Ferdinand has laid out, but neither Queen nor Princess look away.

“Diana... you always make me proud, daughter.”

* * *

It’s at times like this that Martha wouldn’t mind a little superspeed, or maybe some time travel.

She finished cooking all the food on time, miracle of miracles—or maybe it’s because she started everything 30 minutes early, just in case, and now a big chocolate cake is cooling on the counter, and the food is keeping warm inside the oven: roasted potatoes and vegetables, and enough fried chicken for an army, carefully laid out on cooling racks, staying crisp and hot.

Fifteen minutes before sunset, she’d changed out of her housework clothes and into a summer dress, one that’s not so different than the dress Lois had been wearing when they went to the Themysciran Embassy, the one Diana had liked so much. Martha frowns at her reflection as she drags her brush through her silvery hair, because she wouldn’t have minded taking a shower instead of just freshening up, but she’d just finished a full day of Metropolis sight-seeing the first time she’d met the Queen, maybe she’ll think this is just how she usually looks.

Martha scowls at her reflection, then forces her face to relax. She’d always thought of herself as tough, growing up as a tomboy with brothers, and then everything happened, _life_ happened, and she found herself discovering new forms of toughness: how to endure the pitying stares after her husbands died, how to comfort her son through his growing pains, how to chin-up after getting shouted at by rude customers at Sears, how to feign indifference when Superman was being protested on the diner TV…

But this is an entirely different thing, altogether.

Martha reaches up and touches her cheek—her skin is soft, thanks to her week-long moisturizing routine—and for a moment, she can imagine that those are the Queen’s fingers, that’s the Queen’s palm against her skin, and her touch would be hot, and firm, and tender, and it’s been so long, _God,_ it’s been so long… 

Dusty’s excited barking breaks Martha away from her nervous daydreams, and she sighs. The dumb dog is probably crashing into the oven right now, burning his nose as he tries to get at the chicken, and she can’t serve _dog-licked_ chicken to the Queen of the Amazons—

Martha steals a final glance at her reflection, and for a second, a single, fleeting second, she catches a glimpse of the girl she used to be, not a younger girl, per se—but a happier girl, a girl whose only worries were looking nice for a first date, whose only dreams were about stolen kisses in the back of a truck…

“Dusty?”

Martha looks around, but the dog isn’t in the kitchen, and he’s not on the porch, and she looks out the back door, and—

She’s there.

She’s _there,_ and Dusty is sitting on her feet as she pets him, his tail wagging and tongue out and drooling, and the sun has just kissed the horizon, and they’re two dark silhouettes against the smoldering sky, and she’s wearing some sort of dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and slacks with a belt, a _belt,_ and she’s holding a big bouquet of flowers with the hand that’s not petting the dog, and Martha stares, her heart galloping out of her chest—and it’s at this moment that she realizes that she hadn’t actually thought the woman would show up at all, deep down, she had thought it wouldn’t happen, and maybe it wouldn’t even be malicious, maybe the woman just would’ve sent word, another eagle maybe, saying that she was delayed, or got caught up in some intergalactic battle, and she couldn’t be bothered with Smallville, Kansas after all, but no...

She’s _here._

Hippolyta has spotted her, and she’s making her way toward the back door, Dusty practically glued to her side so she can still pet him as she’s walking, and she’s smiling, but it’s a nervous smile, and Martha gulps, reaching out to grasp for the door handle with a shaking hand.

“Hello.”

And Martha finally gets the door open, and she means to say something warm and welcoming and hostess-y, but all that manages to come out of her flabbergasted mouth is, 

“What are you _wearing?”_

* * *

_Do you like it?_

Martha likes it.

It’s a very dashing kind of outfit, but casual enough to make her look relaxed, instead of stiff, the way most men look in suits. The top few buttons of her top are open, revealing a long, kissable neck, and she smells good, not floral exactly, but not masculine, either; Martha almost wants to step forward to bury her face against hair and skin, breathing in, getting more—

And then Dusty steps on her feet, and she jolts back to reality.

“Come in, come in, thank you for coming, dinner’s ready, and these—these are so nice, the colors are so bright,” she rambles, grasping for the flowers Hippolyta is offering to her. “Where did you get them? Are they from your island?”

“There was a stand alongside the road, they had many buckets inside a cart. The woman explained to me all of their secret meanings.”

“Oh, really?” Martha says, holding the bouquet up to her face. “Is there some sort of secret meaning in these?”

And Queen Hippolyta’s arm circles her waist, pulling her close, making Martha’s breath catch, making her heart stutter, making all of those doubts, all of those cautions to herself that this woman didn’t mean anything, she was just being nice, she just wanted some good Kansas food—

All of that doubt is gone with a touch, a very deliberate, very _electric_ touch.

_God, I could get use to this—_

“These flowers, they represent the sun.” The Queens voice is a low purr in Martha’s ear, making her shiver in a good way, the best way. “These others are said to represent the stars. These ones here are given for new beginnings, new possibilities, and these…”

Hippolyta leans in close and kisses her cheek, and Martha wouldn’t be surprised if her lips left a burn, or maybe if her cheeks left a burn on those lips, because she’s blushing so hard, practically squirming in embarrassed pleasure. “...these are said to be an _aphrodisiac.”_

Martha opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Hippolyta simply gazes down at her, looking like she’s immensely enjoying herself, and Martha closes her mouth, then tries again.

“I mean—I don’t think I’ll need any of that. You might, though. For me. I mean—”

“I don’t think so,” Hippolyta says, her voice a low, pleasant murmur, and she says it so politely and casually, she could be talking about anything, the weather, the sun, the stars, but no, she’s talking about… about this, about _her._

“I… don’t know what to say,” Martha finally manages, and it’s true, she doesn’t know what to say. She knows what she wants to _do,_ but that seems… forward.

“Then don’t say anything,” Hippolyta says, and she’s smiling now, brushing her fingers over Martha’s bare arms, and just that, that touch is… is more than anyone’s touched her in fifteen years, at least like that, with that intent, the intent of making her _feel._ “Just—let me look at you.”

And Martha stands still as Hippolyta holds her at arms length, eyes roving over her trembling figure, her gaze as intense and tangible as a caress, soft and knowing, and Martha can’t breathe, she can’t…

“You are very beautiful, little one.”

 _“Well,_ I—I didn’t know the Amazons were blind.”

But there’s a little glow of pleasure spreading through her old veins, because it’s been years: years and years and years since someone’s told her she was beautiful, and said it like _that,_ like all they wanted was to look at her for the rest of their life, and Martha’s mouth is dry, because she’s looking, too. She’s looking, and wondering what would happen if she looked some more, what would happen if she reached out and undid one of those buttons, and the Queen didn’t stop her, and then she undid another, her fingertips grazing against smooth skin—

“You are wounded.”

Martha blinks, but the gleam of teasing has gone out in the Queen’s eyes, replaced by something just as pleasing, a little flicker of worry.

“Oh—that old thing,” Martha dismisses, shifting slightly so then her back is sending less painful throbs through her side. “It’s nothing, I was trying to jack up the car, and…”

Martha’s breath catches, because those long fingers are running down her back now, pressing lightly against soft polyester, and it feels good, in a different way, in a relaxing way. 

“Anyway,” Martha says, tossing her head, embolden by that golden touch. “Maybe if you give it a kiss, it will feel better.”

One of those perfect eyebrows arches up, but the worry doesn’t fade completely.

“The Amazons have a way of easing discomfort; my sister applies it quite often on the training field. May I?”

“You can do anything you like,” Martha snorts, but the Queen only shoots her a look that sends tingles to inappropriate places, and then she smooths her palms down her back, like she’s smoothing the wrinkles out of Martha’s dress—

And that’s it. No pain, not even a slightest bit of discomfort.

“How…?”

Hippolyta looks rather pleased with herself, but she only bends in to brush a kiss over Martha’s bared shoulder, the closest bit of skin to her back she can get at without pulling her dress aside, and honestly, Martha wouldn’t mind—

“One day, I will show you. But for now, perhaps you wish to feed me.”

Martha stares, and Hippolyta stares back, and then Martha jerks in realization.

“Food! Right, right—I did do that… come in, I thought we could eat on the porch, it’s supposed to be a full moon, and Clark put up mosquito netting...”

She seizes onto those magic fingers, and they’re warm, and Dusty runs ahead into the kitchen, as if to give them a solitary moment alone, and Martha looks up at the Queen’s smiling lips, and she wants to, she wants to so much, and the timing is perfect for it—but she gets up as far as standing on her tiptoes, and then she blushes and backs out, splashing down into a puddle of embarrassed jitters, opting instead to squeeze that warm hand.

There will be time enough for kissing later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Happy Thanksgiving! ~~aka the original superspreader event~~ I hope you are all being safe and smart!
> 
> Fun Fact II: Martha's mental version of Hippolyta isn't quite accurate yet because they don't know each other very well! I'm sure these daydreams will become more accurate as time goes on :)
> 
> Fun Fact III: The next chapter is 4000+ words, so we'll see if it all gets posted at once, or if I split it into two.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Thanks for reading!!!


	10. A Goddess in Smallville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a show.

Hippolyta wants to know everything.

Martha had handed her a vase and asked her to put the flowers into some water as she plates the food, and apparently the Queen has superspeed, because the next thing she knows, the flowers are in water, and Hippolyta is gazing hungrily at her as she pulls the pans of hot, roasted vegetables from the oven and scrapes everything onto her best platters—ceramic, with painted marigolds.

“Are you just going to stand there watching me?” Martha finally says, and Hippolyta’s pretty lips lift up into a smile.

“What would you like me to do?”

 _Lots of things, none of them appropriate for the kitchen,_ Martha thinks, but she just turns away to put the pans in the sink to soak, and says over her shoulder,

“Here, take these tongs and put the chicken into this basket.”

And Hippolyta does exactly that, asking questions all the way. Martha shows her the oven and the toaster and the skillet, and she demonstrates how she’d fried the chicken legs in two inches of vegetable oil, and then she makes up a big plate of everything: seasoned roasted vegetables with just the right amount of char, potatoes—both mashed, and deep fried, reusing the leftover oil, as promised—and the big, crispy pieces of chicken that Martha spent the last hour fussing over, and then she ushers her out to the porch, Dusty following with his tongue leaving a dribble of drool on the polished hardwood, panting audibly with anticipation. Hippolyta murmurs in approval at the setup, because the stars are just beginning to come out, and it’s a warm summer night, and the mosquitoes are all trapped on the other side of the net, and Martha had put a little table out with a little tablecloth and some candles, and she tells the Queen to sit and make herself comfortable, then she puts the heaping plate in front of her, and there’s a pitcher of lemonade on the table, and Martha had put something special into it, but—

“Let me know if you want something stronger,” she murmurs, leaning down and kissing that tanned cheek. “I’m not very good at drinks—but there’s some tequila in the cupboard, and some whisky, too, I think.”

“The only thing I wish to drink is right here,” Queen Hippolyta murmurs, her voice so low and sultry, Martha wonders if she should’ve put curtains up along with the mosquito netting. “Go fetch your food, Martha Kent. I wish to gaze upon your face while I eat.”

* * *

It’s so romantic.

The wind is rustling through the cornfields, and the crickets are out and singing, and the cicadas are loud, but not too loud, and it’s the best dinner Martha’s made in a long time. For all of her propositioning since she arrived, Hippolyta is a gracious guest, complimenting Martha’s cooking, asking polite questions about the house and the farm and Smallville, and bit by bit—bite by bite—Martha relaxes.

It’s also dark outside, and the Amazon Queen’s beautiful face is half-lit by the flickering candlelight, which makes it a little bit less terrifying to look at her, and every so often, she reaches out and sweeps a strand of Martha’s grey hair behind her ear, or brushes her warm fingertips down Martha’s bare arm, or simply leans back and gazes at her through the dark, like she’s wholly content to just sit here on this porch, staring at her as she eats.

 _Do you like it?_ Martha asks like a nervous waitress after Hippolyta takes her first bite of fried chicken, picking up the drumstick as instructed, and sinking her teeth into the crunchy skin and the soft, flavorful meat underneath.

 _It is delicious,_ she murmurs, closing her eyes, sighing in contentment, and Martha grins as she goes for a second bite. _This is wonderful. You should be very proud._

 _Well, I didn’t invent it,_ she replies, but she’s blushing, and when the Queen sets down the clean bone, Martha sets another piece onto her plate, then she reaches out with a napkin and wipes the smudge of grease away from those pretty lips, and she’s so beautiful, it should be a _crime_ to be so beautiful…

And then Dusty barks, annoyed that he is not getting any good scraps, and the mood is ruined.

 _“No,_ Dusty, you dumb—this is too salty and spicy for dogs,” Martha scolds as he licks her knee. If she didn’t have company, maybe she might’ve slipped him a bit of chicken, just a little piece, but she doesn’t want Queen Hippolyta thinking that she’s a lonely, indulgent dog-mom. No, she’s a tough farmer, an independent small business lady, a mother who raised an atomic bomb of a baby, a strong housewife who can whip up a dinner fit to serve a Queen…

 _I’ll be anything you want me to be. Anything at all,_ she thinks, watching as Hippolyta cuts a roasted zucchini spear in half, looking perfectly comfortable with a knife and fork. Martha had picked a handful of squash from her garden this morning (before the car tire fiasco), and she’d cut them lengthwise, soaked them in butter, and then rolled them in seasoned bread crumbs, and she’d been worried, because maybe Amazon Queens don’t like eating things that are long, things that are… cyclical shaped—and somehow, she’d forgotten all about knives—

 _“Eat,_ little one,” Hippolyta urges, and Martha startles, realizing that she’s been caught staring. The woman’s eyes are gazing at her, soft and tender in the candlelight, and she reaches out for the umpteenth time to brush her knuckles down Martha’s bared arm. “...or is there something _else_ here you wish to eat?”

Her voice is just pure _sex,_ it’s all Martha can do to not stare with her mouth wide open, and she finds herself almost unwittingly picking up a big drumstick and pushing it into her open maw just hide to the fact that she’s completely dumbstruck, but then she takes a bite, and suddenly her mouth is full of good, crunchy skin, and the meat is still hot and juicy and there’s a dribble of grease rolling down her chin, and Hippolyta is smiling a little smile at her, like she’s never seen anything so beautiful before, and Martha can feel her cheeks beginning to burn again, but she just wipes her fingers and face with her napkin, takes a long drink of spiked lemonade, and then she reaches out and pats Hippolyta’s hand, and that’s that…

 _You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?_ she murmurs, shaking her head, and Hippolyta raises an eyebrow.

 _I am open to suggestions,_ she says politely, but there’s a mischievous gleam in her eyes, and when Martha looks away, heart galloping out of her chest, positive that her cheeks are bright tomato red, Hippolyta just gives her a gracious smile and asks her another question, something about the zucchini and how fresh and wonderful it is, and the vodka must be doing its work, because Martha is asking questions, too: rude questions, like, _So how old actually are you?_ and, _What kind of training do you do to keep in that kind of shape?_ and, _Is it true that all the Amazons live together on a hidden island and… you know. Do things?_

After a while, Hippolyta takes her glass of spiked lemonade away and replaces it with water, and maybe she thinks that Martha doesn’t notice, but she does. 

Once the plates are clean and Hippolyta insists she couldn’t eat another bite, really, they sit outside for a while, Dusty snoring in the corner. The Queen has moved her chair closer, and her hand is on Martha’s thigh, and Martha’s hand is on Hippolyta’s hand, and they’re sitting together in silence, watching as the moon shines over the cornfield, as the stars twinkle at each other, as an occasional stray car barrels unsuspectingly down the road. Martha thinks that maybe she should offer the cake now, but every time she even thinks in the direction of getting up, Hippolyta leans in and kisses her forehead, and her hand squeezes her thigh just a little, and Martha nuzzles her back before she pulls away again, and then she’s not thinking about cake anymore.

At some point, she almost expects Hippolyta to rise to her feet and announce that she must leave, to return to her homeland, or to her daughter’s embassy, or to the bed of one of her many lovers scattered throughout the world, and Martha also wants to save the cake for that, just in case, just to keep her here a little bit longer, long enough to muster up the bravery to...

“I will stay for as long as you wish for me to stay, Martha Kent.” Hippolyta’s eyes are on her now, dark and knowing, but somehow, without a hint of teasing. “And I will leave the moment you wish for me to go.”

Martha can’t look back at her, not when it’s so close—it’s nighttime, dinner is over, and all that stands between the two of them and bedtime is a chocolate cake that a few hours ago seemed so innocent.

“I…” she tries, but the words don’t come. She grabs for her half-melted glass of lemonade with her free hand and takes a big, un-ladylike gulp, then tries again. “I made up the guest bedroom. The farmer’s market is tomorrow morning, and the boys are setting up the stand… I’d like to take you to see it. If you like.”

There are many additional things she would like, but this seems the safest, a plan b, in case tonight doesn’t work out, there’s always a possibility of tomorrow morning before breakfast, or tomorrow afternoon after the market, or tomorrow night, if for some reason, Hippolyta’s patience hasn’t run out, and she’s still slumming it in Smallville, Kansas.

“I would like that.”

* * *

Martha shows her the guest room and lays out some of the more modest nightwear she’d bought at the lingerie shop: a large night robe, and silky pajamas that will cover more of the Queen’s muscular body than her usual armor. She can feel Hippolyta’s eyes on her as she bustles around, turning on all the lights, pulling the bedspread back and fluffing the pillows, but she can’t even bring herself to look in her direction, and when she’s done throwing things around, she swallows hard at the lump in her throat and turns away, steeling herself, forcing herself to march out, leaving Hippolyta to stand alone in the middle of the room, surrounded by bright lights and a comfortable bed and neatly-folded pajamas.

She’s giving the Queen a chance to get away if that’s what she wants, that’s what she’s doing. If she really wants, she can disappear, and then Martha will come back and find an empty room, an empty house, and maybe that would be for the best, for everyone.

Her knees are shaking.

_Martha Clark Kent, you fool, this is a once in a lifetime chance—do you think the Queen of the Amazons has the time or patience to put up with your dilly-dallying? She’s a busy lady, a busy, important woman..._

But she doesn’t look back, because something else will happen if she looks back, she’ll turn into a pillar of salt for her sins is what will happen—what, with both of them alone in a bedroom, and not even Dusty there to chaperone. 

Instead, she finds herself getting naked for a different reason: a hot shower to wash away all of the stress and oil and sweat of the day. And for a long time, she stands underneath the hot water, letting it embrace her, letting it wash away her worries and anxieties, no matter what happens, whether _anything_ happens or not.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. When Martha steps out of the shower and dries off, she moisturizes, smoothing silky lotion over her skin, and she sprays a little perfume on her neck and wrists, because it never hurts to smell nice, even if it’s just for yourself…

And then she puts on one of the nightgowns she bought.

* * *

It’s one of the less scandalous ones from her stash; Martha’s seen summer dresses that are more revealing, but she’d liked this one because it was elegant, and silky, and it was _comfortable,_ hugging her thin frame with elastic instead of using those tight straps or harnesses. It’s a bit more sheer than she’s use to, but that’s why lights have “off” switches, and also why secret trysts with ancient warrior queens happen at night instead of high noon.

Martha pulls it on, sighing in delight as its soft material slips over her skin. When she’d looked at herself in the mirror in that loud, pink dressing room, her reflection hadn’t looked like an old woman who was trying too hard, it had looked like a woman who was older, beautiful and sophisticated in her own way, still having some secrets worth discovering.

She can feel herself lingering, eyes straying to her wrinkles, her flaws, things that weren’t there the last time she’d been planning for a night like this… but a shaky hand she recognizes as her own reaches out and flicks off the light, and then she makes her way out into the hall, creeping out like she’s about to rob this house, instead of being its literal _owner._ Martha takes a deep breath, then peers around the open doorway, and—

The guest bedroom is empty.

Martha’s heart quivers in her chest, as if it’s about to melt—like jelly—no, quiver like jelly, melt like butter, melt like—

_She left._

She couldn’t have left. She can’t have left. She said she wanted—she said _she would_ _like that,_ she was going to stay, they were going to go to the farmer’s market tomorrow, they were going to do obscene things to each other _tonight,_ she—she _can’t_ have—

Dusty is snorting to himself downstairs, probably chowing down on some leftover chicken, or the chocolate cake that they still haven’t touched, because Martha didn’t know if she still needed another excuse, and now she might as well go downstairs and eat the whole damn cake by herself, because _God,_ she can’t say she’s surprised, but she’s disappointed, and she’s more disappointed than she thought she’d be—

_Creak._

Martha freezes.

It’s an old house. It’s an old house that creaks all the time, summer, winter. Nothing special. But…

Martha swallows hard, then she sneaks back into her bedroom and pulls on a big, fluffy night robe, tying it securely around her waist, and then she makes her way down the hall and down the stairs, because maybe it was a trap after all, maybe the kitchen is full of robbers, full of hostile aliens or vicious Amazon warriors ready to take her away, ready to torture her and destroy her house for information on her son…

The light is on in the living room, and Martha pokes her head out from around the wall...

And Hippolyta is sitting on the couch, her golden head bent over a book, that traitor Dusty curled up next to her, his head in her lap. Martha stares from the shadowed stairwell, heart beating out of her chest, not melting anymore, but strong, hollow, and taut like a drum, ready and waiting for a heavy beating—

Martha takes a deep breath, but Hippolyta doesn’t look up as Martha creeps up behind her, even though Martha knows she can hear her, sense her, feel her. She slips the night robe off, letting it fall to the floor, and then she reaches down and slides her arms around those broad shoulders from behind. Hippolyta is looking at some old photo albums, and Martha almost wishes she isn’t, because she doesn’t want to look down and see Jonathan and Clark’s faces smiling up at her from her soon-to-be lover’s lap, she doesn’t want Hippolyta seeing these old pictures of her past life, life as a housewife, life as a mother, life as a farmer—cookouts and picnics and school functions, things from her boring life, her decidedly non-sexy life.

 _“Lyta…”_ Martha sighs, using that name for the first time, the name that had been on that letter, simple and exquisite. “Don’t look at those old things.”

_Look instead at THIS old thing, all dressed up for you._

She doesn’t say that, but her hands move, her fingers brushing against hard biceps. Hippolyta hadn’t put on the pajamas Martha had given her, but she’d taken off her button-down, and she’s wearing some sort of tank top that reveals all of the rippling muscles in her arms, and—from this vantage point—a tantalizing amount of cleavage.

Martha gulps, her mouth dry. Hippolyta has closed the photo album and gently set it aside, careful to not disturb Dusty’s sleeping head, and she starts to turn to look at her, but suddenly Martha doesn’t want those eyes looking at her, not when they’re attached to a body that looks like this, that looks as _perfect_ as this—and instead of doing something practical like covering the woman’s eyes, or fleeing back up the stairs…

She kisses her.

It’s a horrible angle, and a rushed, almost frantic motion, and Martha’s lips are frozen, along with the rest of her, and _God,_ it must be hurting Hippolyta’s neck, twisting around like that, but she adjusts almost immediately, and then… and then she kisses her back.

She kisses her back, and there is nothing else.

* * *

They kiss until Martha starts to feel faint, and Hippolyta’s sitting up now, hands in her hair, hot palms against her neck, caressing her, and when those warm lips pull away, Martha leans forward, just to get one last one in, just in case—and then those blue eyes are staring into hers, searching… and Martha’s arms are flung over those shoulders, and she wants so much, she wants so many things, she doesn’t—she can’t…

“What are you wearing?”

Those intense eyes have dropped, and they’re looking at her now, raking over her body, taking her in, and Martha bites her lip, because it’s been years and years since she’s allowed anyone to look at her like this, and Queen Hippolyta may be several thousand years old, but she certainly doesn’t _look_ it, and she has her pick, the cream of the crop, the best of the best at her beck and call—but those long fingers reach out and trace over the lacy bodice of her new night gown, the pads of her fingertips just barely grazing her skin, and Martha shivers, then reaches up to stop her, just… she knows what’s going to happen if they keep this up, and she can see clear to the street from this couch, and the lights are on, which means any old nobody could peer straight into the house, and…

“Not here... take me to bed.”

* * *

Hippolyta carries her up the stairs, surging over the couch and lifting her up into her strong arms just like that, and Martha wraps a feeble arm around her neck, leaning her head against her shoulder, savoring the feeling of those arms around her, and too soon, they’ve reached the top of the stairs, and her heart is beating so loudly, and it’s like she’s frozen again as Hippolyta lays her out on the guest bed—for some reason, they’re in the guest bedroom—and then the Queen is crawling up, but she’s not looming over her, dominating her, but instead, she’s easing down next to her, like the lion laying down with the lamb, and she doesn’t touch her at first, just lays quietly beside her and watches as Martha trembles hard enough to shake the mattress, then she reaches out and rests a warm hand against her stomach, right over her belly button, and if she presses too hard, butterflies are going to spill out of her, and she’s going slow, like Martha’s a scared little kitten, and she’s _not_ a scared little kitten, she’s a grown woman and she knows what she wants—

Soft lips are plucking at her neck now, and there’s a hand in her hair, stroking it back, and eyes on her face, watching her, and maybe there’s a secret code, a secret lesbian code that she doesn’t know because the only types of people she’s been with like this have been men, and men don’t need codes, they just need a woman to say _yes,_ and then they’re taking their pants off and climbing onto her as fast as they can, as if they’re afraid that if they wait for too long, she’s going to say she’s changed her mind…

“You’re trembling.”

She _is_ trembling, and frozen at the same time; she’s trembling so hard, she can’t move.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, fingers grasping at the bedspread. “It’s okay... just keep going.”

“Little one...” Hippolyta murmurs, and there’s a reprimand in her voice that Martha doesn’t like, and she whines in response. “Are you sure—”

“It’s okay, I said it’s _okay.”_

Hippolyta leans in to kiss her cheek, and Martha winces, because her lips burn, her touch burns, everything burns, and she still can’t move—

“Darling, look at me.”

But Martha shakes her head, because if she looks, then she’ll have to _look_ at her, and be reminded that there’s a real person there, and not just a real person, but a real _female_ person, a real Queen of the Amazons person, and she can’t breathe, she can’t…

“Martha.”

Hippolyta has pulled away completely now, and Martha groans, and she can’t believe it, all of this work—she did everything perfectly, the cleaning and the food and the clothes, and when it finally came down to it, she couldn’t—

“Why did you _stop?”_ she complains, as if this is the Queen’s fault, but in a way, maybe it is, because if Hippolyta had been a man, she wouldn’t have stopped, and they’d be halfway done by now, bed creaking, gasping and panting and hot and heavy, and Martha would be lying here waiting for it to be over, trying her best to enjoy herself in the meantime, but...

“Have you ever been with a woman before, little one?”

Martha butts her head against a broad shoulder, cranky now, cranky and embarrassed and unsatisfied, but she mumbles a sullen,

“No.”

Hippolyta’s blue eyes stare steadily back at her, then she says in a soft voice,

“Are you sure this is what you desire?”

 _“Yes.”_ Martha’s voice cracks, but she pushes on, burrowing against the heavy body beside her, rubbing her face against the soft cotton of her muscle shirt. She smells good, fresh, like waterfalls, like cool, mossy stones. “I want it, I want it more than _anything,_ it’s just nerves, I just, get me—where are those flowers you brought, maybe they’ll help...”

It’s a poor attempt at a joke, but she’s sniffling, and that feeling of nervous anticipation, that faux confidence is shriveling down into something decidedly less attractive, some kind of wretchedness—

“We have time, Martha Kent.” Hippolyta’s long fingers have reached out to brush against the back of her hand, and her touch is electric, but it doesn’t burn, not like before. “There is no reason why we must do everything tonight.”

 _But if we don’t do everything tonight, we might not have a tomorrow,_ Martha thinks, but she doesn’t answer, just closes her eyes and lets herself enjoy the touch of those fingers as they brush over her knuckles, and then there are lips pressing against the sensitive skin along the inside of her palm.

“Do you… do you really think you’ll come back here?” Martha mumbles to the inside of her eyelids, and the lips pressed up against her curve upward.

_“Little one…”_

Martha doesn’t know if that’s an insult, or even an answer, but it is whispered with so much affection, so much admiration, so much amusement, Martha can’t help but open her eyes and smile in return. Hippolyta gazes back at her, and they lie there for a long moment, smiling at each other, and then the Queen sits up and clicks off the light, and now they’re lying here in the dark, the cool moonlight and the nightlight in the hallway just barely enough to illuminate the ceiling, the bed, faces, skin. Martha closes her eyes and leans forward to nuzzle her a little, pressing soft little kisses to her bare shoulder, her long neck, and Hippolyta kisses her back, calloused hands slipping over her skin, firm and electric and hungry… and they’re starting up again, but this time it feels comfortable, and she’s going slow, and this time Martha doesn’t push, she just settles back onto the pillows and enjoys it, and she’s such a good kisser, _God,_ she’s such a good kisser, she could do this all night...

“Give me your hand.” 

Martha opens her eyes in surprise. Those eyes are boring into now, visibly dark with arousal even in this dim light, and Martha reaches out almost without thinking, completely trusting as a strong hand reaches for hers in return. The Queen cradles her hand for moment, then she presses it down against Martha’s heart, so that she can feel her own heartbeat against her palm, and the lacy edge of her night gown against her fingers. But Hippolyta’s hand stays over hers, _cupping_ her, and Martha can feel her heartbeat beginning to spike, and it doesn’t help that those ocean eyes are gazing into hers with an intensity of a scientist watching an experiment, probably watching to make sure Martha doesn’t start whining again, but that doesn’t seem quite so far off, especially as Hippolyta urges her hand a little lower, sliding her fingers underneath the night gown, and her nipples are so _hard,_ Martha gasps as her fingertips brush over them, and Hippolyta’s hand tightens a little over hers, and then she leans forward and whispers,

_“Touch yourself.”_

And Martha obeys, and she’s starting to pant a little, because this has always been one of her spots, one of the best ways to get her aroused, and Hippolyta is just gazing at her, their noses nearly touching, her warm hand resting lightly over hers as she caresses her own breast, playing with her own nipple, doing it just how she likes it, letting this most magnificent of women watch as she works herself up, and Hippolyta’s not even touching anything but the back of her hand, but it’s almost like she’s touching her, it’s almost as if it’s her hand that’s doing this, that’s making her feel like this…

“Lyta,” she groans, because little tingles of arousal are beginning to shoot directly to a very particular place, and she wants it, she wants to adjust some things, but the hand over hers tightens, then lifts it up and moves it to her other breast.

 _“This one now,”_ that smooth voice murmurs, low and husky, and Martha whines, but she obeys, because when Queen Hippolyta tells you to touch yourself, you _touch_ yourself, and not a moment sooner. She takes a deep breath, and it's ragged when she exhales, and she’s beginning to squirm, her free hand scrabbling in the general direction of her too-patient lover, fingers brushing against soft cotton, softer skin...

_“Now…”_

And Martha jerks slightly as the cool hand over hers apparently decides it’s time to see the other sights, sliding her hand down to rest against her lower belly, against that horribly sensitive area just underneath her belly button, and she’s already beginning to spread her legs, thrusting her hips up into empty air, and Hippolyta removes her hand for a second to seize the hem of Martha’s night gown, pulling it up so then it’s pooling around her ribs, keeping her breasts covered for whatever reason, exposing everything else except her most private of parts to the suffocating dark of the upstairs guest bedroom—

“You are so beautiful, little one.”

That warm hand is back, firmly back in place over Martha’s, and she guides her fingers beneath the thin underwear that had been an optional add-on to the nightgown, and Martha groans, because she’s so _wet,_ it’s almost embarrassing, her entire opening is slick with hot, silky arousal, and Hippolyta slides her hand down until she’s practically grabbing herself, then she pulls at the little scrap of cotton between her legs and eases it away, slipping a flat pillow down beneath her hips in its place, and now she’s exposed, all Martha needs to do is move her hand, and Hippolyta will see her, for better or for worse, and if she looks horrified, maybe Martha will cover herself back up with the pillow and beg her to at least stay for chocolate cake, that is, if her appetite isn’t ruined...

_“Touch yourself.”_

Hippolyta’s eyes are soft and gleaming, and that look _alone_ is enough _—_

Martha doesn’t need convincing. 

Hippolyta is lying on her side, flush up against her now, full predator, enjoying the show, one hand resting over Martha’s as she begins to move her fingers against her clit; Hippolyta’s other hand is buried deep in Martha’s hair, her hot lips sucking at her neck, just the way she likes it—how does she _know?—_ and she’s murmuring things, sweet things, encouraging things, _hot_ things, she’s so _close,_ there are so many senses, so many feelings, and it’s soon, quicker than she thought possible—and before she knows it, she’s falling over the brink, turning her head in to muffle her cries against Hippolyta’s shoulder, that familiar rush pulling at her insides like a hook, and it’s _good,_ but it almost feels too soon, they were just getting started...

“Again.”

But there is no again, at least not yet, maybe there will be another again in a few minutes, but—

_“Again.”_

The Queen’s hand is pressing down on hers, urging her to begin the rhythm once more, and her hands are still in her hair, and _she_ hasn’t released any tension, she’s still taut and alert like a cat, like a wildcat, and her lips move down over her throat once more, sucking hard enough to hurt, and Martha realizes that she _does_ have another in her, and her legs are helplessly kicking out as it happens, her free hand grasping at the bunched up bedspread, and the Queen’s eyes are burning holes in her, her expression absolutely feral now, and she surges up, yanking away the pillows against Martha’s back, then she’s sliding down behind her, so that her breasts are pressing up against Martha’s back, and her hard thighs are on either side of Martha’s hips, keeping her in place, and she can’t be expecting more, she can’t—

But the Queen just murmurs, _Go on, little one,_ in her ear, and then she’s guiding both hands down, her right hand on her clit, her left hand—

 _“Inside,”_ Hippolyta breathes, sliding Martha's fingers toward her opening. _“Press here, like this.”_

And it feels… it feels like nothing she’s ever felt before—the first two orgasms, those had felt good, wonderful even, but _this_ feels like something else, like another dimension, like her third eye has opened up and is showing her a new world of pleasure, and _God, Lyta, it feels so good, it feels so good, it feels so good, it feels…_

She’s so close, and Hippolyta is kissing her neck again, but this time from behind, and her hands are alternating between caressing her breasts to pressing lightly on her lower abdomen, Martha has no idea what she’s doing, but she’s doing something, but it feels so _good,_ it’s making her clench around herself, and she’s coming, she’s _coming,_ and it’s so strong, and good, and powerful, and embarrassing, and there’re so many sensations at once, she’s going to die, she’s going to die right here, and _—God, Lyta… Lyta, Lyta, Lyta…_

* * *

When she finally catches her breath and her ears stop ringing, she finds herself flung back against Hippolyta’s chest, her head cushioned against something pleasant and soft, her body utterly spent and motionless. Hippolyta is stroking back her damp hair, and she’s reached out to brush her fingers over Martha’s limp wrist.

_May I?_

Martha blinks. The Queen is holding up her hand, her feeble human hands, and they’re wet, and when Martha gives a wordless nod, that hot mouth envelopes her fingers, and then she’s running her rough tongue all around her fingers, and Martha moans like she hasn’t just had the best sex of her life…

“You’ve done this before,” she mumbles, still woozy, but Hippolyta releases her hand, giving each of her fingertips a little kiss, and she reaches down to tuck a strand of grey hair behind her ears.

“Perhaps… but this time was special,” she says, and her voice sounds just the slightest bit smug, making Martha smile. She gives the thick thigh next to her arm a little swat, then says,

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

And Hippolyta presses a feathery-light kiss behind her ear and croons,

“No, darling… only the pretty ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: ~~Who wrote all this~~
> 
> Fun Fact II: Anyway, Queen Hippolyta is out here continuing her mission to instruct the world in the ways of strong and passionate love(making). 
> 
> Fun Fact III: There was a perfect place to split this chapter right down the middle, but I didn't, so you're welcome :D
> 
> Fun Fact IV: I've got at least three (3) more smut scenes for these two coming up (some may be longer than others). That being said, I don't write a LOT of smut, so 1) Please be gentle, and 2) Don't expect like... relentless smut. The meat of the story is the ~~fried chicken~~ developing relationship and new dynamic between these two, and the smut is just the seasoning. ;)
> 
> Fun Fact V: Anyway, thanks for reading, hope you liked the chapter! Next week, we get to see the farmer's market!


	11. Farmer's Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hippolyta makes her farmer's market debut.

Martha wakes up in the arms of a woman.

It’s a nice change.

Hippolyta is already awake, and she whispers little good morning kisses over Martha’s skin, and Martha giggles and nuzzles her back until the sun comes up, and they have to go, really, Hippolyta, they have to eat and head out soon if they’re going to make it to the market on time…

They eat chocolate cake for breakfast, sitting at the kitchen table in their night robes, still giddy and happy from last night. Hippolyta looks so beautiful, sitting here in her chairs, wearing her clothes, eating her food…

_I could get used to this._

“What?”

Martha startles. Hippolyta is gazing steadily back at her as she licks her fork, and it sends little shivers down Martha’s spine.

“N—nothing. Here, give me your...” And Martha snatches up Hippolyta’s empty plate, not even waiting for an answer. But she can feel the woman’s laughing eyes following her as she makes her way to the sink, and it… 

It’s nice.

* * *

“Well? What do you think?”

Martha gives her a long, appraising stare, and the Amazon Queen actually looks the slightest bit worried when she doesn’t respond.

“I searched our archives, and saw many things: documentaries about America, and the cultivators of the land. Many of them were dressed in this way.”

And Martha sighs, but she just smooths her palms over her new lover’s muscular, flannel-covered arms, and forces a smile.

“You look beautiful. It’s just… it’s very cliche. We may be farmers, but we’re not _blind.”_

Hippolyta’s eyebrows draw together with concern, but Martha just stands up on her tiptoes and kisses the corner of her mouth, ignoring the little voice in the back of her head that’s demanding to know who she thinks she is, how she _dares..._

“The jeans are fine, but the top is a bit too much.” _And a bit too lesbian._ “Besides, you’ll get too hot in flannel. I still have some of Clark’s old things in his bedroom closet, if you want, you can see if there’s something in there that fits.”

“Very well,” Hippolyta says, but a glimmer of teasing has crept into her eyes, and she reaches out to brush her fingertips down Martha’s arm. “Would you like to watch?”

Martha stares, and Hippolyta smiles back.

“God, you _Amazons…”_ Martha grumbles, but she’s already made up her mind, and she brushes Hippolyta’s fingers away. “I have chores to do. If you change soon enough, you can watch _me.”_

The Queen gives her a look that may be a pout, but she kisses her with those pouting lips, then she’s disappeared upstairs before Martha even knows what just happened, leaving her to wander outside to water the garden in peace.

It’s a beautiful morning—a beautiful day in the neighborhood, like in old times. Martha gazes out over the dog run, garden hose in hand, and in the back of her mind, she can imagine Hippolyta standing in the middle of Clark’s old room, pulling shirts out of the closet, trying them on, looking in the mirror—

“Martha Kent!”

Martha jumps, realizing all at once that she’d been flooding her squash plants. Hippolyta is waving at her from the upstairs window, holding up a shirt with the other hand.

“Do you like this one?” she calls, and Martha squints, shielding her eyes. It’s one of Clark’s old grey work shirts, probably the rattiest thing up there.

 _“God,_ no, you’ll look homeless,” Martha retorts in her normal voice, knowing that Hippolyta will be able to hear her just fine. She never even liked Clark wearing that shirt, especially when he _was_ homeless, zipping around the globe, looking for his purpose in life. “He has some polo shirts in there somewhere, short-sleeve. It’ll be in the 80s today.”

Hippolyta blows her a kiss, then disappears from the window, and Martha grins, then goes back to her garden, and her flooded vegetables. Maybe this afternoon, they can go to the department stores, and she can dress up her giant Amazon Queen in a suit, a man’s suit, fitted, with an open collar shirt—silk, or maybe sateen, the kind that doesn’t wrinkle—and it’d be a nice color like purple, or deep red, maybe. Something that sets off that beautiful hair of hers. And it would have those subtle vertical lines that Martha always liked, they look so _good_ with a sports coat—or a top coat, double-breasted—

“How about this?”

Martha blinks. It’s too hot for coats, anyway, especially top coats. Hippolyta’s standing behind her, in the flesh, and she’s wearing another button-down, but this one is black and silky with beautiful flowers embroidered into the fabric, and it looks innocent enough, even though she has the sleeves rolled up like she’s about to get down and start hoeing a field, or birthing a litter of piglets…

“Where did you get that?”

“I packed a few things in the plane. Does it meet with your... _approval?”_

Martha makes a face at the wording, but Hippolyta is giving her a broad grin, and when she opens her arms, Martha steps into them, rubbing her cheek against silky hydrangeas.

“I guess it will do,” she murmurs, and warm lips press against her forehead, then the giant mountain of a woman gently pushes away.

“You’re wet.”

Martha stares. Hippolyta stares back, then gestures down to where the garden hose is merrily watering Martha’s boots. 

“Oh!” she says, blushing furiously, but she gives the laughing Amazon Queen a nudge in the ribs for her innuendo. “You shush. Do you know how to patch a car tire?”

* * *

The farmer’s market opens at 9, but it’s already bustling when they pull up around 8. Farmers and farmhands and wives and children are already mingling around, eating free donut holes from one of the local bakers (free cup of coffee with any purchase).

“Hey, Martha, we have ice cream today!” 

“Hi, Mrs. Kent!”

“Hey, lady—I’ll stop by your stand later, save me some blueberries!”

Martha waves back, but she doesn’t stop as she makes a beeline for the Kent Farm stand, tent and tables set up, half of the produce already spread out, ready to be sold. One of the boys—Peter, aka Pete Ross the Third, poor boy—looks up with a smile as she approaches, then almost drops a giant bin of broccoli onto his foot when he spots Hippolyta’s attractive figure following in Martha’s wake.

 _“God,_ are you all right?” Martha exclaims, but the boy just snatches up the bin once more and shuffles around with a murmured, _Yes, ma’am,_ cheeks flaming. Martha watches as he starts arranging the broccoli on the table, then she turns and gives Hippolyta a speculative look.

“Come on, let’s go see the truck.”

Hippolyta follows as they make their way over to where the Kent Farm truck is parked, most of its contents already unloaded and waiting by the tables to be unpacked. In the old days, Martha use to haul everything here in her pickup, but when Bruce Wayne bought the bank, he bought her a new truck, too. This one has shelves, a cooler, and plenty of space for more produce than her little garden could ever ship out to the market on a weekly basis.

“We’re going to have to give you a name,” Martha says in a low voice as she climbs in and starts looking at the cooler, as if there’s something wrong with it. “What do people call you, when you’re undercover?”

“‘Your Majesty’,” Hippolyta replies innocently, her voice coming smooth and silky through the dark, but when Martha tsks, she slips her arms around her waist. “During my time in Man’s World in the 1940s, they called me Polly. That seemed to be a popular name at the time.”

“Polly?” Martha wrinkles her nose. “That’s a little outdated. And… parroty.”

“Do you have a name you like better?”

“No,” Martha sighs, shutting the freezer and shivering. “I just wish you didn’t… stand out so much.”

She hadn’t thought the logistics of this through—she’d thought maybe if someone asked, she’d just say this was her friend visiting from Metropolis, someone she met while visiting Clark in the city, and she’s just passing through town. But it’s not that easy, it’s never easy, especially when said friend is a beautiful Amazon Queen giantess.

“Will this make you feel better?” Hippolyta says, resting a reassuring hand against Martha’s shoulder before reaching into her breast pocket. She produces a pair of glasses and slips them onto her face. Martha stares.

“...that’s not funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Hippolyta says, and Martha bites her lip, trying to hide her smile.

“Because you look nice.”

* * *

It’s a perfect market day. Hippolyta is a natural at bargaining for some reason, maybe from all her thousands of years of practice at her Paradise Island market days. She haggles with the old people, making them roar with laughter. She converses easily with the baby boomers, listening to their recipes and complaints about the weather, answering their questions about when this or that crop is going to finally show up. She engages with the young families when they talk about the new fads their trying, gives them advice when they ask about how to cook chard, and whether pearl onions have a different flavor than normal onions. Martha opens her mouth to say something when she starts giving out free fruit samples to the children, but she notices the parents filling up their baskets, and she shuts her mouth again.

During a little lull in the crowd, Martha sends her to get them some pastries and coffees for their lunch, and the woman comes back with an entire box—most of which were free, apparently—and half a gallon of lemonade.

 _What did you do to those poor people?_ Martha asks, but she’s grinning, and Hippolyta is looking at her like she wants to kiss her, and she can’t, but _God,_ Martha wants to kiss her, too...

Peter leaves after lunch, once Pete Ross the Second and Pete Ross the First and their respective generations have stopped by the stand. Pete Sr. is a retired salt miner—and is just as salty as one might expect, in Martha’s opinion—and his son, Pete Jr., had wandered around different jobs after high school: construction, landscaping, and warehouse stocking, before eventually landing at his semi-permanent job as a manager at IHOP. 

The Ross family make up some of her most loyal customers, but deep down, in a less-attractive place in Martha’s heart, she feels like sometimes they just hover around so much because they feel bad about what happened to Jonathan, and with Clark moving 1500 miles away: maybe they’re just supporting her out of pity, just another old widow, bumbling around by herself, trying to keep her life together.

The produce looks good, though, the best table she's put out so far this year, and the Rosses stock up for the week, and Hippolyta patiently listens as Helen Ross tells a long story about a salad she made at some church picnic during some summer, probably a hundred years ago. Lana Ross (née Lang) rolls her eyes as she picks over the last few bunches of lettuce, clearly tired already of the time she’s spent with her in-laws.

“So who’s your friend, is she new in town?” Lana asks with the easy familiarity that these young people have, like everything is sunshine, and nothing is forbidden. Martha glances sideways toward where Helen is finally getting to the part of the story where she arrived at the church, salad bowl in hand. Hippolyta looks politely intrigued.

“Oh, she’s just a friend of Clark’s, him and Lois,” Martha says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “We met in Metropolis, she’s just stopping by.”

Lana raises an eyebrow, but she just swipes her phone, and Martha hears the _ding_ from her own device in her pocket, the ‘payment received’ notification.

“Well, I hope she stays for a while,” she says with a knowing smile, _too_ knowing for Martha’s taste, then she’s waving a hand at her son, that universal mom gesture to _come over and help with this._

_I hope so, too,_ Martha thinks to herself, watching as Peter the Third lumbers over, and his mother starts hanging bulky reusable bags onto his arms, then she’s bustling her family off, urging her talkative mother-in-law to _leave this poor woman alone._

Hippolyta fluffs the remaining lettuce heads, arranging them so then there’s not a gap, then she glances back at Martha’s watching figure, a crooked smile on her lips.

“What?”

“...nothing.”

But it's _something…_ and whatever it is, Martha can't stop smiling.

* * *

After the Ross dynasty leaves, Martha leaves the stand in the capable hands of Mrs. Williams’ recently graduated son, and she takes Hippolyta around to the other stands before they close. There’s more than just produce at the farmer’s market, and more than just farmers: there’s an elderly woman and her sister who sell jams and jellies, a young couple who sells jars and jars of different flavored honey, a family that sells sausages and beef jerky and hot dogs from a small barbeque (Martha almost asks Hippolyta if she wants a hot dog, but she’s afraid the goddess woman will say yes to be polite, and then she’ll have to watch Queen Hippolyta eating a hot dog, and… she’s not quite prepared for that). 

She stops at all the baked goods stands, trying all the free samples, introducing her friend “Polly” to all the ladies. They all get up from their folding chairs, shake hands, ask nosy questions, make terrible comments about whether Hippolyta played basketball in high school, but the Amazon Queen takes everything in stride, and she even purchases a variety box of those little French macarons that are all the rage. The owner of the shop, a bright young woman about Clark’s age, throws in a free cake pop, which Hippolyta presents to Martha with a flourish and a dashing smile, prompting the owner to clasp her hands in delight and say, _Oh my God, you two are such a cute couple._

And Martha feels herself freeze up, because she wasn’t expecting _that,_ but she glances around to see if anyone’s heard, and there’s only an old geezer in a cowboy hat standing at a nearby table, and he’s looking at the zucchini muffins, but he gives them a sideways glance, and Martha’s bracing herself for a comment or a lecture, but he only gives her a silent thumbs up, then turns away without another word, leaving Martha to stare as he lumbers back into the crowd...

The rest of the market passes in a blur. Martha eats the cake pop, saying something about how pretty the frosting is, but she doesn’t remember what it looks like, or what it tastes like, or even throwing away the stick when she’s done. The poor Williams boy has already packed up by the time they’re back, and Hippolyta helps load everything into the truck, easily lifting the bins up into the bed, and then he’s driving back to the farm, with Martha and Hippolyta following in the pickup, and then they’re back, and Martha pays off the boy, and they put the unsold produce into the big coolers, and then they’re back in the house, and Martha watches as Hippolyta sets her macarons onto the kitchen counter like she lives here, and then she reaches out and takes the goddess by the hand and pulls her into the living room, and she pushes her down onto the couch cushions, and then she climbs on top of her like they’re teenagers, and her kisses taste like the handful of blueberries that she’d snuck when they were putting the produce away, and her hands are warm as they slide beneath Martha’s shirt, those calloused palms clasping her sides, caressing her skin, and Martha burrows into her, pressing wet little kisses over her jaw, moving down to her collarbones, that pulsing vein in the side of her neck, and then…

And then she closes her eyes, and she doesn’t open them again until evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: This was so much fun to write! I miss outdoor markets and looking at people and things.
> 
> Fun Fact II: I've never actually seen the Smallville TV show except for a few scenes here and there (mostly the ones with their version of Ma Kent, haha). I do feel like there's kind of a fine line to walk when fleshing out places like Kansas, and other parts of the world that are... less glamorized? Like, writing Metropolis realistically means bringing it down a peg or two and showing how it is impressive and overwhelming, but it's also diverse and tacky and cramped and constantly in need of repair. Writing Smallville realistically means really highlighting that small-town pride and charm and coziness, while also acknowledging that there are issues with how that culture treats people who are perceived as a threat to its idyllic (and very white male-centered) image.
> 
> Anyway, we won't go into it THAT much since this is a fluffy story, but it's in the back of my mind :P
> 
> Fun Fact III: Hippolyta was part of the Justice Society of America in the 1940s, and she was called Polly, which is quite bizarre, but also fun.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: I am behind review replies because of this thing called work, but I'm wrapping up a project on Tuesday and I'll take a quick breather before starting the next (and last!) project for this company, and I'll reply to reviews then. :/ Thank you so much for your comments, they are wonderful and make me smile. 
> 
> Fun Fact V: Thanks for reading!! In the next chapter we'll see what happens on Saturday evening ~~YOU know what happens on Saturday evening~~ :D


	12. The Best Restaurant in Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a show, Part 2

Hippolyta knows how to drive.

Martha doesn’t know why she finds this so strange. But she calls in a dinner reservation for two, feeds the dog, and then they’re off, driving to the best restaurant in town. 

“They have a wall of wine. An entire wall of just wine bottles, it’s been a while since I’ve been there, but it was impressive. The kids always go there for prom and stuff—there or Olive Garden—and they can never drink any of it.”

Martha’s rambling. Just this morning, they’d driven up this same highway, and the sun was coming up, and things were fine, they were about to sell some produce, and Martha had been driving and laughing, and things had been fine.

But this feels different, it feels like a first date, and that’s ridiculous, because _yesterday_ had been their first date, or maybe even the Themysciran Embassy had been their first date… but this is their first time going to a sit-down restaurant for the explicit purpose of romance, and that makes all the difference.

Martha almost wishes it was dark outside, but it’s the day after summer solstice, which means the sun is blazing like a spotlight as they park in the crowded parking lot and make their way toward the entrance. When she’d called in the reservation, she’d asked for a booth, hoping that it would be dark and secluded, far away from other people, and—

“Boy, they sure don’t disappoint,” Martha exclaims as the waiter hands them their menus and walks off to get their ice waters and bread. This booth is so dark, she can barely see Hippolyta’s face. There’s a tiny candle on the middle of the table, soft and romantic, and a lamp overhead that’s supposed to look like that fancy Italian glass, but it barely throws enough light for them to read their menus.

“It is nice. It will allow us to indulge our other senses,” Hippolyta’s low voice slides through the dark, mingling delightfully with the jazz music coming from the speakers, and the muffled game that’s playing on the TVs over the bar.

“What, our taste bu—”

Martha’s voice cuts off abruptly as a hand slips onto her lap, a sneaky Amazon Queen hand just casually caressing her thigh underneath the restaurant table, and Martha stares, but Hippolyta looks completely engrossed in reading her menu, glasses perched comically on her nose. Martha glances underneath the table, just checking, just to confirm that it really is her, and it is, and she really should slap the woman for being so bold and _wicked_ in a public place...

But the hand feels nice. And Martha doesn’t move it away, not even when the waiter comes back with appetizers she doesn’t remember ordering. There are little toasted bruschettas elegantly piled with cheese and tomatoes and little green leaves of basil, and a wooden tasting board with healthy things: cold cuts, goat cheese, cherry tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and big, fat, juicy grapes that must’ve been imported in from another country.

The waiter had brought over two bottles of wine, and now Hippolyta is offering her a glass of red, and she takes it, and they toast each other, and Martha can see she wants to kiss her, but it’s not _that_ dark, so she opts for reaching over and squeezing her thigh instead, and now there are two thighs being held, because two can play this game, and Martha can’t remember the last time she’s enjoyed herself this much, really...

Hippolyta had ordered the two specials of the day: the rack of lamb, and the scallops, and they both look so _good,_ Martha allows herself to rest her head against a strong Amazon goddess shoulder after the waiter leaves, and she just breathes in, smelling that good food and feeling that hard muscle against her cheek, perfectly content. Hippolyta smiles down at her and presses a chaste kiss to the top of her head, but the woman is apparently hungry, because she pats her knee and says,

“Which do you want first?” 

And Martha closes her eyes, then she sighs and forces herself to sit up.

The scallops look so tiny on the plate, there’s just five little things next to a pile of sauteed greens, whereas the rack of lamb looks like enough meat for _four_ of them. 

“I’ll get started on these ribs. If I start with the scallops, there won’t be any left for _you,”_ Martha says ruefully. But Hippolyta just leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth with lips that taste like wine, then she whispers in her ear,

_Don’t forget to save room for desert._

* * *

The best restaurant in town’s main weakness is its desserts. They offer cannolis and tiramisu, but Martha’s never been a big fan of either: too heavy, too creamy, too not-chocolate cake-y. The waiter takes their dirty dishes away, and for a while, they just sit together, and Hippolyta refills their wine glasses, and this one is a sparkling wine, a sweet white wine, and it bubbles its way down to her content belly, and gives her the giggles. 

_Well, there’s plenty of dessert at home,_ she says, leaning her head openly against Hippolyta’s shoulder now, holding her hand underneath the table. There’s the ice cream that Martha bought at the market, and the leftover cake that she’d baked yesterday…

“Yes, there is.”

And Martha opens her mouth to respond, but maybe she’s already had too much dessert today: cake for breakfast, donut holes and free pastry samples and that cake pop for lunch… her stomach keeps flip-flopping, but not in a bad way, in a nervous way, a pleasantly nervous way, and she finally drinks down the last of her wine, and looks around expectantly for the bill, but the waiter just tells them to have a nice night, because _apparently,_ Hippolyta already slipped the bill when Martha was in the ladies room, and she’s almost angry, because this _keeps happening,_ but the Amazon Queen just laughs and wraps an arm around her as they make their way back to the car, and it’s finally dark outside, and Martha’s buzzed and happy, and Hippolyta opens the passenger side door for her, helping her up and into her seat like she’s Lizzy Bennet, and she’s Mr. Darcy, except Hippolyta is a hundred times more pleasant and handsome then that silly man, and then she’s starting the engine and driving them home, and it’s a clear summer night, and the stars are out, and Martha rolls down her window, and the breeze is fresh and cool and delicious, and all she wants to do is stay on this road forever, in this car, with this woman, in this world.

* * *

Martha takes a shower when they get home.

Maybe they were supposed to make out in the car, or shove each other up against the front door, barely able to make it inside before the clothes start flying—but she’s out of practice, and she’s still lightheaded from the wine, and she’s still grubby from market day. 

_I’ll going to shower. Don’t go anywhere,_ she orders, and Queen Hippolyta just grins and waves her off. Dusty is already prancing around underfoot, waiting for goddess scritches and cuddles, like the traitor he is.

Martha spends a long time in the shower, hot water streaming over her skin… and then she spends a long time in her bedroom, blow-drying her hair, moisturizing, getting ready. She’d wrapped herself in her towel and stood at her dresser, staring down at the new lingerie that she’d hidden underneath her diner workshirts. She hadn’t bought anything fancy, no corsets or bodysuits or anything like that, just some simple two-piece sets, one with a pretty, silky flower design, and one with lace. They’re so beautiful, almost more elegant than sexy, she almost doesn’t want to wear them, ruin them with her body, and her breath, and her sweat, and her…

But she sneaks the silky one out of her drawer, balling it up it tight in her palm as if to hide it, then she drops her towel, giving her newly-dried hair one last shake, and she slips them on, and they fit, and they’re comfortable, and she’s not used to looking down and seeing so much skin, so she puts on her night robe right away, and then she goes to stand in front of the vanity and brush her hair and look at her reflection, and her cheeks are flushed with anticipation, and her eyes are shining, and she actually looks _happy,_ and it’s a new look on her, and it doesn’t make her look younger, exactly, but it makes her worry less about looking older—not that she was _that_ worried about it, but it’s never exciting to think about how one’s best days have probably all already happened, and now there’s only the painful dredge of getting older to look forward to—

“You look beautiful.”

Queen Hippolyta’s reflection is staring back at her in the mirror, and she’s smiling, and leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, head just slightly tilted to look at her better. Martha feels a hot flush of embarrassment—and maybe something else—spread through her, and she waves her hairbrush at the grinning face in the mirror.

“You’re spying, you can’t, you—you...”

But her voice trails off as the goddess moves closer, and warm hands slide around her waist, the silky nightgown bunching up against her palms, and soft lips press against her neck. Hippolyta doesn’t speak, but she gives a little contented sigh that, if Martha didn’t know any better, she’d think it sounded just the slightest bit turned on, but _that_ can’t be right…

“Did you… did you wash your hands after petting the dog?” Martha gasps, because those _lips_ are plucking softly at her skin, and...

“Yes. Such a sweet little animal.”

And Martha snorts before the thought crosses her mind that maybe the Queen isn’t talking about Dusty after all, but the hands on her feel decidedly hungry, and Martha bites back a moan as they ease open her night robe, revealing the tiny outfit and pale skin underneath, and she closes her eyes as Hippolyta’s admiring voice murmurs, _Oh, little one..._ and suddenly she doesn’t want to look at herself anymore, she wants to do something else, something that involves these hands, and these lips, and these arms that are around her, and _go on, Lyta, what are you waiting for?_

“Tell me where you wish to go, and I will take you there.”

The voice is low and seductive and the words are just unsteady enough for Martha to hear that she’s aroused. The hairbrush clatters out of Martha’s hand and onto the vanity as she slides her arms around that long neck, pulling this goddess of gods closer, pulling her in for a deep, soul-searching kiss.

_“Take me to bed.”_

* * *

They end up in the guest bed together, the light from the moon and stars outside not quite bright enough for Martha to see her visitor from the legends—that lady she likes, the Warrior Queen from TV, but she smooths her palms over smoother skin, biting back a shy smile as the body beside her rumbles in appreciation at her touch. Hippolyta covers her skin with kisses, and when she brushes her fingertips over the edge of her outfit, Martha closes her eyes, and she waits for so long, she wonders if she’s going to have to undress _herself,_ and that’s when the beast in her bed gives a low chuckle and says, _Are you sure, darling?_ and Martha says, _I’m sure, I’m sure…_ and then those silky straps are slipping down her shoulders, and she shivers, because usually that never happens unless it’s an accident, and she has to stop herself from automatically going to right them again—and then deft fingers are unhooking the clasp in the back, and she’s trembling again, panting, and Hippolyta is whispering things against her skin, things in another language, and it’s so _hot,_ she forgets about the awkwardness and just slides her arms around that golden head, letting out a soft little moan as a warm tongue flicks out to lick over her nipples, and it’s been so long since anyone… she’d almost forgot how it felt, someone enjoying her, appreciating her, _touching_ her…

 _Go on,_ she whispers as those strong hands clasp her waist, and it’s so strange to remember that at this time yesterday, she had never even shared a bed with a woman, and now the most beautiful woman in the universe is here, kneeling before her, hands parting her knees, lips kissing the inside of her thighs, long fingers caressing her hipbones, as if she knows, she _knows_ that’s a spot, a ticklish spot, a sensitive spot, and then—

_“Oh...”_

She’d been married for over two decades, married to two different men, one a preppy rich boy barely out of high school, the other a staunch farmer turned soldier turned farmer again, and there had been… moments, nights together, good times, even, but it had never felt like _this—_ like this sly creature is reaching underneath her skin and undoing her veins one by one, letting all the loose ends just curl up on themselves, taut with anticipation, and she’s slipped a finger into her now, crooking it slightly, pressing against that spot that had driven her so mad yesterday, and she’s moaning without shame now, thrusting against that talented mouth, grasping at the sheets, at the plump pillows, heels digging into hard muscle, but Hippolyta’s taking her time, touching her here, lingering there, tasting and exploring, sometimes sucking, sometimes just kissing, and it’s not _fair,_ she’s not used to waiting, she’s not used to someone putting on a whole show down there, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets out a low cry of, _Please, please, oh, please,_ and she feels it down in her very soul, like some world-weary traveler searching for the end, but Hippolyta gives a soft sigh of pleasure, like she’s having the time of her life, and Martha groans and turns to bury her face against the pillow in frustration, and one of those devil hands reaches up to caress her breast, teasing her nipple, and the other one has begun to dance inside of her, and she’s added a second finger, and they’re curling up inside of her, and _oh,_ _God in heaven, what is that, how are you doing that, what are you doing to me, Lyta—please..._

And then her back is arching up off of the mattress, and she’s fisting the sheets, trying to muffle her screams against the pillow, and it feels so good, it feels so _good, it feels so good, Lyta,_ and there’s stars, so many stars, she might as well be floating around in space up here, and this is it, this is what they’re talking about when they talk about this—this _high,_ this mindless wash of pleasure, this feeling like her very body is being turned inside out, like she’s struggling her way out of the womb, and all her flesh is exposed now, raw and pink and shiny, and this Goddess of Old is just laving her with her tongue, soothing her, loving her—and _God,_ she’s starting to come back down now, but Hippolyta’s not letting up, she’s trying to get another, and Martha’s legs are kicking out, as if in protest, because she’s not some twenty-year-old with infinite energy, she can’t go around stacking orgasms on top of each other like this, but she is, it’s happening again, and she’s crying out, lunging forward, grabbing helplessly at silky hair, and that tongue is doing things, _things—_ and it’s not stopping, it’s still going, and she can already feel the fatigue seeping into her limbs, she won’t be able to do another one, she’ll have to stop, Lyta, Lyta, _Lyta…_

That’s when the goddess surges forward and bites, right at that perfect spot at the side of her neck, fingers plunging deep into her very soul, and Martha is tumbling head over heels, hands grasping at hard muscle, fingers biting into flesh, crying out like her life depends on it, and this is how she’ll die, this is where she’s going to die, and she doesn’t even mind, she’d do it again in a second...

* * *

When it’s over, she tries to pull her lover down, crawling up onto her, licking her own scent off of those rippling muscles; she wants to do more, reciprocate, but the goddess only says, _Do you like this bed?_ and Martha pouts, but she doesn’t push it. Perhaps her other girlfriends have custom-made beds for their trysts, beds that strong Amazon Queens cannot destroy, and perhaps Martha should look into that…

But for now, she’ll content herself with burying her face against silky hair, pulling her lover closer, burrowing against that warm body, legs tangled with the sheets, the cool draft of the air conditioner whispering over her bare skin, heart thumping softly and happily in her chest, and she doesn’t know—but she does know, when she wakes in the morning, she’ll still be here, she knows it right down in her sore, but very satisfied soul, she’ll be here when the sun rises, here to welcome her to another day, a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: ANYway... apparently the mood for the end of 2020 is hungry and horny! (This is the second chapter where we've had dinner and a show!)
> 
> Fun Fact II: This is the last pre-written chapter I have, so thankfully work will be a little lighter next week so I can ~~finally reply to reviews like a polite person~~ actually write the next chapter!
> 
> Fun Fact III: I don't understand how a handful of little scallops can be an entree, but apparently it's a thing. 
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Anyway, everyone have a safe week, and by the time the next chapter comes around, it will be Christmas and I will have seen WW84 from inside my apartment, so that's neat :D
> 
> Fun Fact V: Thanks for reading!!


	13. When Can I See You Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marlyta makes plans.
> 
> Also fried chicken salad sandwiches.

She meant to wake up early and make a nice breakfast.

But apparently, _something_ happened last night that tired her out, and the sun is up and running by the time she opens her eyes and sits up, craning her neck to see the clock…

And then a Goddess nudges open the door with her foot, and it’s because she’s carrying a tray of food, and Martha just stares as she sets it down on the vanity and glides across the floor toward her, sitting down on the edge of the bed and leaning down to kiss her shoulder.

“Good morning.”

And Martha just blinks up at her for a long moment, as if the sun itself had decided to pop into her guest bedroom and blaze down at her with all its glory…

 _“God,_ I can’t believe you’re here,” she finally murmurs, reaching out to touch those muscular arms, then quickly pulling her hand away, as if that’s somehow forbidden now. 

“I can’t believe _you’re_ here,” Hippolyta replies, leaning down again, this time to kiss her properly. Clearly, she’s not worried about forbidden things. Martha grins and kisses her back.

“Yes, but I live here.”

Hippolyta smiles down at her, those long fingers plucking absently at the covers that are bunched up underneath Martha’s arms.

“Are you hungry?”

Her voice is low and meaningful, but before Martha can reach out and pull her down for some _feeding,_ the woman eases away, stretching out a graceful arm toward the tray of food, carefully lifting it up and over to the bed.

Martha pouts at her, but Hippolyta only smiles and sets the tray onto a little stand over Martha’s lap.

“I have prepared all of this wonderful food for you, Martha Kent,” she says, snapping out a fine cloth napkin that Martha’s never seen before, and lovingly fastening it around Martha’s neck—there’s no collar for her to tuck it into since clothes were apparently deemed unnecessary last night. “You need to recover your energy.”

Martha thinks of complaining, but she _does_ have to work today, and the Sunday afternoon diner shift is always hectic and never fun, and she really hasn’t been getting very much sleep this weekend…

“Fine, I’ll eat,” she grumbles, picking up the fork and knife and beginning to cut into the crispy fried eggs. “But you know…”

She stuffs a pile of soft egg into her mouth—it’s cooked just the way she likes it, the yoke just a little bit juicy, but not runny, and not dry—and pauses to chew, wishing she hadn’t said anything in the first place, because now her cheeks are going red, and Hippolyta is just looking at her like she’s never been more amused by anything in her life.

“I do _not_ know,” she purrs, reaching out and brushing her fingertips over Martha’s blanket-covered knee.

“I didn’t—” Martha attempts, mouth still full, then she swallows and reaches for her glass of orange juice. “I didn’t actually get to… eat.”

Hippolyta just looks at her, and Martha feels herself blushing even harder.

“I mean, you. It was all you, doing me. I didn’t get to do you.”

“Hmm.” Those long, sneaky fingers reach over to pluck a slice of strawberry from Martha’s tray. “And is this something you desire?”

Martha glances over at the Queen’s long legs; they’re sheathed in casual white pants that stop just above her ankles, and she’s wearing a floaty blue top that barely hints at the enticing shapes underneath.

“I mean. I think so.”

The Queen licks the smudge of strawberry juice from her fingers, then she slips an arm around Martha’s shoulders, and her breath is sweet and strawberry-y as she leans in to kiss her cheek.

“Then perhaps one day you shall.”

* * *

Hippolyta is helpful to have around the house.

Dusty thinks she’s a literal gift from the Gods (and Martha is inclined to agree), and after they finish the morning chores, he apparently agrees to sit in for a haircut, because the next thing Martha knows, Hippolyta is asking if it would be all right if she gave the dog a trim, especially with this summer heat, and Martha is left to stare as Hippolyta goes over the silly animal with a pair of scissors, and he actually sits still for the first time in his life, tail wagging, tongue out, adoring eyes following Hippolyta’s face as she kneels beside him, combing her fingers through his coat, snipping here and there.

“I think that dog likes you more than he likes me,” Martha says ruefully, going for the broom and beginning to sweep up the porch, since she’ll have to sweep up the dog hair anyway.

“He is a beautiful little creature,” Hippolyta says, pauses her grooming to give the so-called beautiful little creature a petting session. “Just like his owner, hmm?”

Martha scoffs, but she’s grinning, and if she knew the Queen better, she’d give her a little swat with the broom, but mortal humans can’t just go around swatting Amazon Queens with brooms, so instead she goes inside to get the dustpan, and she listens as Hippolyta sings a little song to the dog as she cuts his hair, and it’s sweet. It’s sweet and perfect, and for some reason, Martha knows that the woman is leaving today, even though neither of them discussed it, she just knows, she can feel it, they’re going to sit down for an early lunch together, and then she’s going to go off to the diner, and Queen Hippolyta is going to go back to Mount Olympus, and Dusty will go out to the dog run, and he won’t be sweating or shedding half as much, maybe that will be it. That will be it for her grand summer romance, that will be it, a chance of a lifetime, an experience for the ages—

“And now a bath,” Hippolyta’s voice says happily. Martha startles and the dustpan clatters to the floor, and she bends down, fumbling blindly for the handle, and her nose is running a little, and it’s just from the dust, the dog hair, and definitely nothing to do with the fact that it’s over, but it was such a beautiful, beautiful weekend…

Dusty is giving little whines at the mention of a bath, but there’s a soft _thump_ as he climbs obediently to his feet, and Hippolyta is murmuring to herself as she rises and brushes the dog hair from her clothes, and then she’s asking if she can use the hose in the back to give the dog a bath, and Martha says yes and gives what she hopes is a cheery smile, and then Hippolyta is chasing after the silly creature as he tears through the yard, because he doesn’t _want_ to take a bath, he wants to race around and dig in the dirt, and Hippolyta is laughing, and Martha sighs and straightens up, giving herself a little shake, and then she goes out to finish sweeping up the porch—but the porch is swept and pristine, without a single strand of dog hair to be found, as if they’d never been out there at all.

* * *

Martha can barely swallow down her lunch. Hippolyta made sandwiches with the leftover fried chicken, and she’d cut the meat into cubes, leaving on the crispy skin, and she'd tossed it with mayo and celery and spices, and then she’d stuffed it into some buttered rolls with tomato and lettuce and some of the leftover bacon from breakfast, and it’s _delicious,_ and Martha knows she needs to eat so she can stay on her feet for the next six hours, but…

Hippolyta doesn’t push her to speak, but when Martha pushes away her plate and says she can’t eat anymore (not that she’s _full,_ just that she can’t eat), Hippolyta takes away the leftovers and wraps them up, saying something about how maybe she’ll want the rest for dinner or lunch tomorrow.

And then…

And then Martha has brushed her teeth and changed into comfortable clothes and put on her waitressing shoes, and then she and Hippolyta are standing in the backyard, and only a few days ago, she’d come out onto the back steps and seen the Queen of the Amazons standing against the sunset, looking strong and beautiful and happy, and she’d been petting the dog and carrying a bouquet of flowers, and it had been the happiest moment of Martha’s life, and now…

“Now.”

Hippolyta has turned to face her, and she’s reached out to clasp Martha’s bony shoulders, and they look at each other for a moment, as if waiting for the other to speak, but Hippolyta is the one who said, _Now,_ so clearly that means she wants to say something...

“When can I see you again?”

Martha stares.

“You—you want to see me again?”

Her voice sounds shaky. Hippolyta nods once, eyes roving her face, as if trying to read her expressions, but she doesn’t have to do that, all she has to do is look, because Martha can _feel_ herself crumbling with relief, and she’s sure it’s written all over her face, clear as reading a book—

“You can see me whenever you like. I’m just here,” she says, waving her hand in a wild attempt at casual, but she’s beaming, she’s smiling so wide, her cheeks are starting to hurt, and _God,_ she must look horrible, like one of those clowns on TV, but Hippolyta just looks down at her with a sly little smile, then she bends down and kisses her cheek.

“I must return to Themyscira. But in two weeks, our Senate will be released. Perhaps you will allow me to return then?”

Martha can’t stop smiling. It’s getting silly now. She has to stop smiling to reply, because if she doesn’t reply, maybe the Queen will change her mind and go find someone who looks less like a maniac, and decide to sleep with _them..._

“I’d like that. Two weeks.”

Their noses are touching now, and their foreheads, and Martha giggles.

“That’s just fourteen days.”

“Not fourteen days, little one,” Hippolyta murmurs, and her hands are circling her waist now, pulling her close, so that their bodies are touching, their bodies are pressing together, and it’s so sinful, it’s so wonderfully sinful, Martha reaches up and grasps at those biceps, because if she’s over here sinning, she might as well get her money’s worth. “Twelve days.”

And Martha sighs in contentment as those arms wrap around her, and she melts into that now-familiar embrace.

“Well, that’s even _better.”_

* * *

Hippolyta will never truly understand Diana’s attraction to that woman, Isabel Maru. She’s a brilliant scientist, and her sharp mind is unparalleled in man’s world, but she’s a generally unpleasant creature, stingy with her affection, and generous with her disdain. She has no spirit for adventure, no interest in pushing her limits on the training field, and is largely wrapped up in her own world: science, experiments, and mentoring her unfortunate students.

But there are moments when Hippolyta sees a glimpse of the woman her daughter had fallen in love with, moments when Isabel is wrapped up in her work, fingers flying across her tablet, eyes shining as she mutters numbers and curses to herself; moments when they’re in the company of Lena Luthor, and the three of them are debating some issue about the world or the universes, and Isabel is at ease, truly at ease and happy and present, and her eyes are shining as she watches her wife and their protégé interacting together. There are instances when Hippolyta believes Diana chose well, and she is at peace with her daughter’s decisions.

This is not one of those moments.

It is their weekend, a rare weekend for the two of them to spend together, the one Diana had asked Hippolyta to join because it had been so long since the three of them had been together and uninterrupted.

And apparently, the two women had planned nothing of interest for this special weekend, because when Hippolyta lands her plane on the roof of the Themysciran Embassy, they are both on the balcony—and not even the one that overlooks the park, but the one that overlooks the dirty alleyway behind the building—and they’re sitting in respective lawn chairs, reading silently, with not even music playing from one of their Man’s World devices—no, they are being serenaded by the clang and clamor of the city. Diana is dressed in casual shorts and a tank top, letting the summer sun’s rays soak into her skin, and Isabel is sitting underneath an umbrella and wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

Hippolyta rolls her eyes and does not comment on the fact that they could do this exact same thing in any corner of the world, in any company.

Diana looks up in surprise as her mother steps down onto the balcony from her invisible jet, then she leaps to her feet with a grin, hurrying forward to embrace her.

“Mother! I thought you had already returned to Themyscira, what…?”

Hippolyta kisses her daughter in return, and this time she can’t help but smile and ruffle Diana’s hair as she refuses to release her.

“I am on my way back to Themyscira now. I wished to speak with you before I returned.” 

“Of course.” Diana looks concerned for a moment, but Isabel only shoots them a smirk from over the top of her book, and Hippolyta waves a hand in her direction, seeing how she has tensed slightly at the mention of a conversation.

“Stay, Isabel,” she says. “You are from Man’s World—you may have some suggestions.”

The woman makes a face as if she’s annoyed at this interruption to her afternoon, but Hippolyta can tell she is secretly pleased. Diana has dragged over another lawn chair and a cold drink with a tiny umbrella, and she offers both to her mother. When they are all seated, Hippolyta takes a sip of the drink; it is cool and sweet and refreshing, made of strawberries and lemon and rum, a perfect mix of flavors. Diana has settled herself directly across from her, and Isabel hasn’t moved from her seat in her private pool of shade.

“I… have begun a romantic relationship with a woman in Man’s World,” Hippolyta says without preamble. Isabel stifles a sound that may be a laugh, and Hippolyta shoots a questioning glance in her direction. But she doesn’t look mocking, only somewhat smug as she puts out her hand. Diana glares at her, then digs into her pocket, pulls out a piece of Man’s World currency, and throws it in the general direction of her smirking wife.

“You will have to forgive—when I told her of your behavior during the conference—and when you disappeared this weekend… _anyway._ I am so happy for you, Mother, is she… does she know about you?”

“Yes, of course,” Hippolyta says, choosing to not reprimand her daughter for _betting_ on her. “She is very understanding.”

Diana glances over her shoulder, and Isabel has apparently deigned to join them in the sunlight, helping herself to her wife’s half-full drink.

“Is she wealthy?” the scientist asks in a matter-of-fact tone. Hippolyta tsks, because Isabel is wealthy enough for _all_ of them, but she understands the sentiment behind the blunt words.

“We are moving slowly,” she replies, neatly sidestepping the question. “And she has a good heart.”

“Well, _of course,_ she must be very special, to have captured your attention after all these years,” Diana says too loudly.

“When I first met your daughter, she was homeless, penniless, jobless,” Isabel says airily, and Hippolyta manages a small smile, because Diana is pouting, but even she can see that her daughter doesn’t mind her wicked wife, not really. “I sometimes think the only reason why she spent all those years hunting me down was because she needed a rich woman to latch onto. Do not make the same mistakes I did, Your Majesty.”

Diana pretends to shove her wealthy wife away, and Isabel snickers.

“Thank you, Isabel, I will keep your wise words in mind,” Hippolyta says, rolling her eyes as she reaches into the pack at her side. “Here, you two—these desserts are much like the ones they serve in France. Do you think the Amazons will take to them, instead of those horrible plastic cookies your aunt always asks for?”

Diana takes the box of macarons from her and lifts up the lid, peering down at the elegant cookies nestled inside. 

“Well, they _look_ fine. But if they are not up to par, I can always order you a shipment—”

“Why does it say, _Our bakery is founded on our deep love of life, family and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,_ on this box?” Isabel interrupts, her head craning so she can read the bottom of the box.

“These people are very…” Hippolyta dismisses, waving her hand. Isabel doesn’t look convinced. “The woman selling was very kind.”

 _“This_ isn’t the woman you have fallen in love with, is it?” Isabel presses, her voice ominous, ignoring Diana’s elbow digging into her ribs.

“No, we were simply visiting the marketplace,” Hippolyta says, raising an eyebrow. “Are you interrogating me, Dr. Maru?”

“Of course she isn’t, Mother,” Diana says hastily, handing the box back to her mother and giving her wife a less-than-subtle glare.

“There are many people of faith who also believe in science, Isabel,” she says. “You should be more open-minded.”

 _“Hmmph,_ today I have discovered that my wife does not know me at all—”

“Do the Amazons know?” Diana interrupts loudly, but instead of pushing her huffy wife off of the lawn chair, she pulls the woman into her arms, and somehow, Isabel looks more prickly than ever.

“They know a little,” Hippolyta says, avoiding her daughter’s gaze as she slips the box back into her bag. “I do not want them to become overexcited. You know how they can be.”

Diana smiles a little smile, but she only reaches out and clasps her mother’s hand.

“I am so happy for you, Mother… and I look forward to meeting her when both of you are ready,” she says graciously, but Hippolyta only gives a tight smile and looks away, because she cannot lie to her daughter, but she also cannot admit to her little sun and stars that she's already met this mysterious new lover of hers.

* * *

Twelve days is too long.

After Hippolyta leaves, Martha throws herself back into her routine, working at the diner, weeding her garden, taking care of the farm, vacuuming her house, doing the dishes, hanging out the laundry.

The night after Hippolyta leaves, Martha is startled from her TV watching by a familiar tapping sound on her front door, and she nearly leaps across the kitchen to wrench open the thing, careful to not disturb Kyllini as she stretches out her neck. Martha slides out the scrap of parchment, and it’s a sweet little note, a thank-you for the weekend and the wonderful food and beautiful memories.

There are a few racy sentiments, too, things that make Martha blush right down to her toes.

At the end of her note, Hippolyta says she will arrive at sunset in two weeks, on Friday, and she asks— _orders_ Martha to not cook a thing; she will be bringing dinner in her invisible plane.

_Well, that’s no good, what am I supposed to do, sit around and twiddle my thumbs while I wait?_

But Martha is secretly pleased. She doesn’t _dislike_ cooking, especially when it’s for someone with an appetite, or it’s for an experience, like the one she and Hippolyta had shared on the porch on that magical night. But she doesn’t really _like_ cooking, either, not when she lives in a day and age where all kinds food can be so easily ordered; why, for people Lois and Clark, cooking is almost a luxury, and they’re far more likely to order some exotic takeout, and spend their precious time doing other things. And there are plenty of restaurants in Smallville, not as many as in Metropolis, but sometimes after a long shift at the diner, she’ll order something to go, maybe from a drive thru, or order some from a restaurant on her phone, and then she’ll sit in front of the TV and eat it, and it feels a little less depressing than a frozen TV dinner or some old leftovers.

Clark calls on the same night and asks how things are, a not-very subtle nosing around at her “weekend guest”, and Martha says that her weekend was very nice, and that she plans on having another nice weekend in two weeks, and that’s that. Maybe she should tell him, but it’s just so _new._ And Hippolyta and Superman—they’re going to be working together for years and years, Lord willing, and if things don’t end well, or if they end abruptly, she doesn’t want to come between their world-saving.

Besides, it’s nice to have a secret like this, a happy secret, a secret she can keep to herself, something to fantasize about at night, something to keep her going from day to day to day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Anyway, this chapter is a little early, but I thought I'd do my part to help end the year on a good note. I can't believe it's finally almost over. We made it!
> 
> Fun Fact II: Also, if Queen Hippolyta thinks "taking it slow" means sleeping together on the first date and spending the whole weekend together, I'm curious what she thinks taking it fast means! :D
> 
> Fun Fact III: It's 100% okay to think Isabel is generally annoying because I think so too, haha, but I do think she's spent enough time around these Amazons to know how they get when it comes to romance, and she really does just have the Queen's best interests at heart. I would also be wary if I heard that Queen Hippolyta is dating a mortal human if I didn't know it was Martha Kent!
> 
> Fun Fact IV: She actually did have a romance in the comics with a guy named Wildcat, back in her Polly days. I'm pretty sure most current timelines don't acknowledge Hippolyta's days as Wonder Woman, though. 
> 
> Fun Fact V: Anyway, if you do the calendar math, you'll see that two weeks from summer solstice is a fun holiday ~~AND WW84 STOLE MY IDEA FOR WHAT I WAS GOING TO DO FOR THAT HOLIDAY~~ and I think Hippolyta has a surprise planned.
> 
> Fun Fact VI: Thanks for reading and happy new year! :D
> 
> P.S. I'll probably have the first chapter of my tumblr extras up in a couple of days so keep an eye out!


	14. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marlyta make preparations for their second date.

Themyscira is quiet.

It is almost midnight, and although there are still some stragglers around the bonfires on the beach, some night lovers wandering through the town square for leftovers from the evening meal, a few flickering candles in windows throughout the city... the island is hushed, soothed by the summer breeze, the cold moonlight.

But Antiope is awake, and she greets her sister with a simmering pot of stew over the fire, a half-eaten hunk of bread, and a small platter of fresh cheese. Menalippe is sitting in the corner of the Queen’s common rooms, apparently preoccupied with the leather belt she is weaving, her feet up and comfortable, the perfect picture of domestic, unsuspicious bliss.

“Greetings, sister,” Antiope says warmly when Hippolyta marches in, as if this is something she does every night.

“This is most unusual behavior, General,” she replies, her eyes narrowing with mistrust. 

“I am merely here to offer you a trade,” Antiope says, pointing to the bag at Hippolyta’s hip. “My wife saw a vision of you gouging yourself on a feast during your absence. You must share.”

Hippolyta rolls her eyes, but she reaches into her bag and takes out the box of macarons and the wrapped chicken salad sandwich that Martha had insisted she take with her—the meat is still cool and unspoiled from the cold room on the invisible plane—and she places them into her sister’s outstretched hand.

“Perhaps your wife should keep her visions to herself,” she says, shooting a glance over at Menalippe’s innocent figure.

“The Goddesses blessed me with the gift of Sight, My Queen,” she says, her voice serene, but Hippolyta knows her well enough to hear the mischief underneath. “If they so choose to grant me a vision, I cannot turn away from it.”

“See how these humans cook their meat, Mena,” Antiope says, already having torn open the plastic wrap. She saws the sandwich into two with a fearsome-looking knife and thrusts half under her wife’s nose. “The bird skin is almost its own ingredient.”

Hippolyta shakes her head and ladles a bowl of hot stew for herself. It has been hours since she and Martha Kent parted, but it already seems worlds, centuries away. Martha has not even returned home yet from her work, she will still be at her diner, serving meals for another three hours.

“This food is divine, Hippolyta. Your lover is truly skilled,” Menalippe calls to her, but Hippolyta just tears a chunk of bread and dips it into the savory broth. Perhaps she should have stayed another night, weeded the garden, prepared the unsold fruits and vegetables for canning and freezing, made dinner so then when Martha Kent returned, she could collapse onto the couch, and Hippolyta could bring her a hot meal on a tray, and then they could watch TV together, and then, perhaps her little human would be too tired from all of the orders and food and heavy dishes, and she would snuggle up against her and fall right asleep…

“We are not here only to eat your food, My Queen,” Mena’s voice is saying politely, and Hippolyta looks up as Antiope mutters something that earns her a kick in the shins from her wife. _“Tell_ us about her.”

Hippolyta waves an absent hand, the one holding a half-eaten piece of bread. 

“She is wonderful.”

Her sisters stare back at her, and Hippolyta turns away, busying herself once more with her meal, as if this hearty stew can fill the yawning emptiness in her soul.

“...I miss her.”

* * *

It’s Martha’s second time going to the city in less than a week.

And it’s for the same exact reason.

The glow from Queen Hippolyta’s visit lasted for a few golden hours, and for a while, waitressing felt like the most wonderful job in the world, because she could take orders, and carry dishes, and wipe down tables, all while daydreaming about the most wonderful woman in the world…

And then the dinner crowd had crowded in, and there were impatient customers, and frazzled cooks, and dirty dishes, and a line for pick-up orders and desserts, and then the fatigue had set in, and it was all Martha could do to not stumble her way out the door at the end of the day, a heavy trash bag in each hand. 

By the time she’s gotten home, the sun is down, and Dusty is waiting and whining, sitting at the back door, watching for a beautiful warrior Queen to appear and lavish him with kisses and love. But she doesn’t show, and the dog finally lets out a low whimper and meanders his way into the kitchen, where Martha had put one of the sandwiches into the toaster to warm.

Too late, she remembers that it’s a salad sandwich with mayo, and it really shouldn’t be toasting at all.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, Queen Hippolyta has sent two letters, and Martha has sent two in return, and soon, they will be together again, and they will have an entire weekend, and this time…

This time she wants to be prepared.

She calls ahead, looking up the store in her old Yellow Pages like some kind of dinosaur, and she asks if they have a book, a specific kind of book that she can read and study in _preparation,_ and the bored voice on the other end of the line tells her she’s probably better off checking in with the gay bookstore, because this place mostly sells sex toys and lingerie and the like, and Martha is so embarrassed, she’s barely able to get an, _Ah, okay, thanks,_ out before she slams the phone down, frantically flipping through the Yellow Pages for _that_ number, and when she calls, a no-nonsense voice says she knows just what she’s looking for, and offers to put it on hold for when she comes in, and when the worker asks for a name, Martha just gapes at the phone, because apparently in the city, it’s perfectly acceptable to order books like this and just leave a name, a real name, for anyone to see.

But she stutters out her name, shoving away the voice in her head that’s screaming for her to hang up, hang up now, or at least leave a fake name—and then she’s hung up the phone, and it rattles in its cradle, and then she takes a deep breath. The kitchen is dark and still, with only a few bars of sunlight is shining quietly through the window over the sink, and Dusty is sleeping in the parlor.

_This is really happening._

Of course, it was happening a few days ago, too, when a beautiful warrior woman laid her down onto the guest bed and undressed her and pushed her up and over that brink of pleasure like she’d never experienced before—but this is different. With that, she could say she was seduced, she could say she was drunk, or helpless, or caught up in the moment, but this… this is _premeditated,_ this is planned, this is her turning over to the dark side and actually embracing it, instead of just letting it happen.

It had been simpler when Hippolyta had been here; she’d been practically helpless to do anything but gravitate to her like a magnet, and when Martha had looked at her, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world, wanting to burrow into her arms and take everything she was willing to give. 

But now she’s going to have things in her house, things she’ll have to hide at the bottom of her drawer, things Clark will find and be horrified at after she dies… she’ll have to walk around her little town, saying hello to her little people, knowing that she’s touched a woman in the most sinful way possible, and that…

That will take some getting used to.

Dusty grumbles as she steps over him to get her purse and things for her mini roadtrip. Maybe while she’s in Wichita, she’ll pick up something to eat, maybe some exotic city food that she can’t get in Smallville. Something Greek, like the food Hippolyta had been talking about in her last letter.

“Oh—God, _Dusty!”_ Martha shouts as she almost trips over the animal on her way out the door. Apparently he heard her thinking about food and wants in. “All right, all right, you can come—but you have to behave. And don’t you dare bark at the gay bookstore, for God’s sake.”

The dog goes bounding down the front steps as Martha locks her door, and it’s a beautiful summer morning, not too hot or humid, perfect for a trip down to the city. 

But Martha cranes her neck looking up and down the road as she pulls out of the driveway, making sure there are no cars, no familiar faces—just in case.

* * *

The Karathen has returned.

Even though they had parted in peace, Hippolyta had been doubtful that the creature would return to her lair underneath Themyscira. She had left almost immediately for Atlantis, and Hippolyta had thought perhaps she would choose to find another underwater cave, another lover from amongst the metahumans.

But the waves lap restlessly against the shores, signaling unrest beneath the surface, and when Hippolyta goes out to walk along the beach, there is a message waiting inside a bottle—one of Arthur Curry’s beer bottles, nonetheless. The script is strong and spindly, and the paper blotched with water.

_I have returned home. I will send another message when I am ready to see you again._

When the Amazon scavengers bring word to the General that their Queen is sitting motionless on the beach, she leaves training immediately, marching down to the shore to drag her sister away from the water and into her humble dwelling at the bottom of city. Hippolyta does not respond to her questions, but when she is handed a cup of steaming tea, the unhappy woman hands her sister the short message in return. 

Antiope stares at it for a moment, then at the bottle, then her eyes brighten with understanding.

“So this is from the _creature._ It is not signed, I had thought—”

“Why did she return at all if she cannot bear to see me?” Hippolyta interrupts, snatching the message back, and carefully rolling it and placing it into the bottle once more. “The ocean is vast, and her King is young, he can surely use her guidance and services.”

“She offers Themyscira her protection, Hippolyta. Perhaps she wishes to honor that, regardless of whether you are… _honoring_ her in return.”

“I do not want her to feel guilty. _I_ do not want to feel guilty.”

“Did you wrong her? Did you make a promise to her?”

“No, we always understood… she was always aware that there were others. She was amused by this.”

“This one is different, though,” Antiope says, her voice pointed as she refills Hippolyta’s cup with hot water. “This human cook of yours, she is different for you. She is exclusive.”

“We have not decided on this yet.”

“But she is.”

Hippolyta sips angrily at her cup of tea, refusing to squirm as her sister fixes her with an unyielding stare, the like that sends the strongest Amazons into trembles on the training field. 

“It is… it is my hope that we will be important to each other, for an extended amount of time. That is all.”

“All right,” Antiope says, her voice agreeable.

They sit in silence for a long moment, then Hippolyta scowls and sets down her cup a little harder than necessary.

“I do not—”

“You have made a _history_ for yourself, sister,” Antiope butts in, seeing that Hippolyta is about to say something indignant and noble. _“No one_ instructed you to sleep with every creature who crossed your path—”

“The Goddesses charged me with leading these foolish beings in the ways of love and peace—”

“Yes, and are there not ways to do this without _seducing—?”_

“They desired for me to right the wrongs Lord Zeus wrought upon his creation—”

“Peace, Hippolyta, do not change the subject,” Antiope says, waving her hand. “You must take responsibility for what is done. If the creature is upset, she is well within her rights.”

Hippolyta surges to her feet and begins to pace the tiny room, her cloak sweeping over the unswept floor. Antiope reaches for the bottle and pulls the message out once more.

“And she may not even be angry with you, sister,” Antiope murmurs, scanning the inky words. “See here, she says only that she is not ready to see you. This is not uncommon; sometimes, _I_ am not ready to see you.”

“She has never said such a thing before,” Hippolyta replies, her back to her sister. “I fear she is—”

“Perhaps she is redecorating her home,” Antiope interrupts, rising to take some food down from the shelves: goat cheese, hard bread, dried fruit. If she is to waste her morning counseling her sister, she may as well eat while doing so. “Perhaps the King of Atlantis gave her some special boughs or wreaths during her visit—or perhaps she is creating a special chamber for your human so then you can all enjoy each others’ company in comfort.”

“That is ridiculous,” Hippolyta scoffs, but Antiope tosses aside the bread and seizes her arm, keeping her from striding past.

“She is not _Hera,_ sister,” Antiope says quietly, looking her dead in the eye. Hippolyta stiffens at her tone, but she looks away, avoiding her gaze. “She is a monstrous creature who loves you, for whatever reason. But she is not an all-powerful Goddess with a terrible temper and a history of cursing those who wrong her. She is your friend, and she wishes to see you again when she is done redecorating her underwater cave.”

Hippolyta looks down at the paper Antiope is offering back to her, and after a moment, she takes it with a murmured thanks. They stand in silence, then Antiope tilts her head and says,

“Are you better, now? Or shall I call my wife?”

 _“I_ will call your wife,” Hippolyta says, but she embraces her sister tightly. “If any of the Amazons ask, I will be in the temple.”

“Hippolyta…” Antiope calls as the Queen steps out into the sunlight. She pauses in her step, but does not turn, as if she hears the apprehension in her voice. “This woman. Does she know of you? And your past?”

“She knows a little. Occasionally, she will allude to things… she believes the Amazons are sexually vivacious.”

Antiope looks unimpressed.

“It may be wise to warn her.”

* * *

She doesn’t want to, but Nell Potter begs so hard, Martha finds herself relenting and agreeing to work the Friday lunch crowd. It’s so close to the holiday, people are dropping out of work like dead flies, gone to visit their families for the 4th of July weekend, or rushing to prepare for cookouts, picnics, potlucks.

It’s busy in the diner, filled to the brim with men who’ve been kicked out of their houses for the day, women who are stopping by for a quick bite in-between errands, grandparents who are babysitting their grandchildren. Martha bustles around, distracted, keeping one eye on the clock, even though she knows Hippolyta won’t appear at the Kent Farm until sunset. But it will never do for her to show up with dinner and find an empty house, and Martha still in her little diner two miles away, covered in grease and sweat and old food and spilled drinks.

She’s broken from her reverie by the sight of Nell marching toward her, and she looks around guiltily, wondering if she’d forgotten something, or if someone is complaining about her service—

“You’re not going to like this.”

Martha stares.

“No.”

“I’m sorry, but if you don’t, there will be _one_ girl working the entire dinner shift, and I’ve called everyone—”

“I’m not supposed to be working today at _all,_ Nell Potter!” Martha snaps, turning away and scrubbing down a dirty table. Whoever had been sitting here apparently had terrible aim, because they’d just up and left gobs of ketchup sitting right on the surface.

“I’ll pay you overtime—overtime and a free pie, _two_ free pies, and you can keep all your tips, you don’t have to put them in the jar—”

“What time is sunset tonight?” Martha interrupts, grabbing the spray bottle from behind the counter to give the table a proper cleaning. And maybe to spray Nell, too.

“I… like, 9 PM, or something. Why? Do you turn into a pumpkin if you're not home by—?”

“I’m not staying past 7:30. And _you’re_ working tables with me if there’s not a line out the door.”

“Martha, you’re a _saint—”_

“Oh, shush,” Martha retorts, regretting this whole thing already. 

* * *

It’s past 8PM by the time Martha finally extracts herself from hell.

The dinner crowd had been bigger than usual, families who didn’t want to cook, couples out on date night; and then there had been swarms of people just stopping in to get takeout or pies. Martha ducks behind the counter once on her way to the kitchen, and she takes her promised overtime pies from the case, keeping them safe from greedy customers. Hippolyta had said she was bringing dinner, but she hadn’t said anything about dessert, so it seems safe to grab a few good ones so then Martha’s not stuck taking home a chocolate peanut butter banana pie or something.

By the time she’s finished up with the last of her tables, it’s well past her designated end time, and she hurries out of the diner, pies in hand, nearly forgetting to take off her apron. The sun is inching toward the horizon, she’ll barely have enough time to take a shower and change before her lover arrives.

She’s practically running by the time she gets home, tossing the pies onto the counter, almost tripping over the dog, almost falling in the shower, and _definitely_ putting on her dress backward. But she frantically attacks her hair with her brush, and brushes her teeth, and tosses some makeup onto her face, and she’s so _tired,_ she could fall asleep right here, right on her feet, but her heart is pounding so loud in her chest, it’s like she just ran a marathon, and she’s getting sweaty again, just standing here, and even now, she can see the dark sky outside the bedroom window, can hear Dusty whining at the back door, can hear the sound of a voice…

“Silly little dog… you are the silliest, most handsome little dog. Where is your mistress, hmm?”

And Martha drops her makeup onto the vanity with a loud clatter, grabs her sandals, and she just barely has the chance to look at her frazzled face one last time before she turns and smacks right into a hard goddess warrior body.

_“Lyta!”_

And it is her.

She’s here, standing in her bedroom—the bedroom is a mess, her dirty clothes are half-lying in the hamper, and the makeup cluttered across the vanity, and the bed is rumpled and unmade, and she’d meant to clean up a bit after the diner, vacuum one last time, dust the shelves…

_“Little one.”_

And then strong arms are wrapping around her, and there is nothing else: no worries about her makeup, no worries about her hair, no worries about her forbidden book at the bottom of her underwear drawer—just a warm, comfortable embrace, and firm hands pressing against her back, against her head, and every time she thinks about possibly moving away and breaking the embrace, she stamps it down and snuggles in even closer, and Hippolyta chuckles, then she guides her across the room toward the bed, and pulls her down so then they can embrace each other properly, and it's so comfortable, and it's so warm, and it's so _right..._

She's asleep in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: It's late and I apologize for any mistakes, I'll come back and fix those in the morning!
> 
> Fun Fact II: We're missing a few key scenes here (Martha's bookstore visit and Hippolyta's dinner making), but they'll tell each other about these things in the next chapter, and I think it will be nice to keep some of the suspense for those conversations.
> 
> Fun Fact III: I have a plan for the Karathen :D
> 
> Fun Fact IV: I know there are other Amazons Hippolyta should be consulting/interacting with, but I don't have the patience to work out all their personalities right now. We'll meet them all when these two start visiting each other.
> 
> Fun Fact V: Anyway I kind of just slapped this together in a day, so it's a bit rough around the edges, but hopefully it's not terrible.
> 
> Fun Fact VI: Thanks for reading!! :D
> 
> P.S. I bumped up the chapter numbers! (This seems to happen often :P)


	15. A Feast for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hippolyta made dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This whole chapter is basically just food porn

She was only out for fifteen minutes, but she’s still chagrined when she wakes up in bed wrapped up in her good summer dress and two strong goddess arms, and a hungry-looking dog is staring disapprovingly at her.

_Oh, my God, I’m sorry—I can’t believe I… and you traveled all the way here, and I just fell asleep, I’m so sorry—_

But Queen Hippolyta just grins and reaches out a graceful arm from where she’s lounging on the bed, her long body stretched out in the most enticing way possible, and she pulls Martha back down and silences her protests and apologies with a kiss that takes her breath away.

When the kissing is finally over, Martha thinks maybe she’s gone to heaven and back, and there are eyes as blue as the ocean gazing back at her, and an impatient dog stepping all over the bed with his dirty feet.

 _“Now,_ little one,” Hippolyta says, propping herself up on one elbow and giving Dusty a subtle nudge. He leaps off the bed with a whine. “I have brought the evening meal, if you are hungry, but—”

“I’m hungry,” Martha interrupts, scooting forward so she can burrow against a hard goddess body. She’s wearing some sort of elegant silky purple short-sleeve blouse thing, and it feels nice against Martha’s flushed cheeks. A hand has reached down to stroke at her hair, and she gives a contented sigh.

“If you like, I can bring it to you here, in bed. But I had planned—I had hoped to bring you to a special place to enjoy our meal. It will not take very long to reach, only a quarter of an hour if we fly quickly. But if you are too tired, we can just as well eat here.”

“I’m not too tired,” Martha replies, her voice muffled against something soft and delightful. “I want to see your special place.”

The hand caressing the back of her head pauses, as if its owner can’t believe she flew all this way to lie here, listening to this foolish talk…

“Are you _sure_ you are not too tired, darling?”

And Martha finally raises her head so that she can look the goddess woman in the face, and she’s looking back at her with a delightful mixture of amusement and concern, and she gives her a silly smile in return.

“I am a _little_ tired,” she admits, reaching up to brush her fingertips over that blunt jawline. “But I want to see the thing. The place.”

Hippolyta gives her a small smile, then she sits up and begins to wrap Martha’s now-cold figure up in the bedspread.

“What—Lyta, _what_ are you—”

But the Amazon Queen only wraps her securely in the fluffy quilt, then she plants a chaste little kiss on Martha’s cheek and begins to carry her down the stairs, calling for the dog to bring the shoes, and Martha stares in amazement as Dusty tears up the stairs and bounds back down with her sandals hanging out if his drooly mouth, then Hippolyta is kneeling down so then Martha can grab her purse, and she checks to make sure her keys and her phone are inside, then they’re walking out the back door and into the dark yard—and thank God it’s dark, because the last thing she needs is some stray driver on the road looking over and seeing this ridiculous parade, and then they’re apparently reached the plane, because they’re higher up off the ground now, and Dusty is throwing her shoes down, and they just hover in midair, and then he’s gone tearing off down the invisible hall, and Hippolyta is shouting something at him about staying off the bed, and then they’re sitting down, Martha in Hippolyta’s lap, and one strong arm is still wrapped around her bulky figure, and the other arm is doing something with the invisible controls, and then…

And then it’s her little farm.

She’s staring down at her farm, and the porch light is on, and there _is_ a car driving down the road, a couple of them, and over there, just around the riverbend, a few miles off, she can see the diner, the parking lot—there are still people at the diner, and—

“Oh, _damn.”_

“Hmm?” Hippolyta asks, and the sound of Dusty’s nails clicking against invisible metal grows louder as he makes his way into the cockpit.

“I had pies—two pies, from Nell, and they’re still sitting in the kitchen, I left them in the fridge. I mean, they’ll be all right, I just… I meant to serve them after dinner.”

“We are still close, would you like me to—?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Martha dismisses, trying to wave a hand, but it’s all bundled up with the rest of her in this silly blanket. “We’ll eat them later. They’re pies, not ice cream cake. They can just sit tight.”

They’re speeding past some bright patchwork of lights now, it’s not quite Wichita, but there’s no other city that’s so close…

“Where _are_ we?” Martha asks, learning over to look out the invisible windows. Hippolyta shifts her in her lap so that she doesn’t tumble down onto the invisible floor, but she spares a glance at the world below, as if it’s barely worth her attention.

“We are nearly clear of your country, now. That is the city your people call Phoenix.”

Martha stares, but the lights are almost past now, and the world is a dark blanket once more—

“Phoenix, _Arizona?!”_

Queen Hippolyta gives a short nod, and Martha stares, then turns to look out over the edge of the quilt, where what can only be the ocean is fast approaching on the horizon.

“God, Lyta, how… how fast _is_ this thing?”

* * *

The plane is fast.

It moves so fast, it almost catches up with the sun; when they land, there’s a glimmer of light on the horizon, and Martha catches a glimpse of the deep red sliver sinking into the ocean, and then Hippolyta is carrying her inside, and there’s walls, and windows, and a couch, and when she’s being set down onto soft cushions, still swaddled up in her bedspread like a newborn baby.

“Dusty, stay, keep watch,” Hippolyta orders, then she bends down to brush a kiss over Martha’s forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

And then there’s the sound of a door closing, and she’s gone, and Martha allows herself a wide yawn, extracting her hand from underneath the quilt to cover her mouth. Dusty is prancing around, waiting for Hippolyta to come back from where she’d apparently landed the plane in the front yard. It’s a snug little living room, with big windows that look out over the cliffs to the ocean, and a low coffee table. The sun has fully set, and now the water looks dark and choppy and frightening, and Martha jumps when the door slides open and Queen Hippolyta appears, carrying what looks like a large canvas cooler.

“Are you all right?” she asks, giving her spooked figure a double take. Martha nods, and Hippolyta sets down the cooler and kneels beside her, reaching out to sweep a stray grey hair behind her warm ears.

“Hello.”

Martha tries to make a face, but all that comes out is a happy smile, and she sinks a little deeper into her blanket to hide.

“Hi.”

Cool lips press against Martha’s forehead—the only thing that’s visible now, and a strong goddess hand smooths down over the slope of Martha’s body.

“I can raise the temperature in this room if you like, darling. Or you can stay wrapped up like a little cocoon.” 

“It’s actually a little hot,” Martha mumbles, and it _is_ toasty underneath this big quilt, but when she tries to struggle out, a gentle hand rests against her shoulder, stopping her.

“Allow me.”

And Martha watches as she bends and carefully unwraps her from her personal heater, like the old person she is, needing a personal heater in _July,_ and she gives an involuntary shiver as the normal-temperature air hits her flushed skin, and those blue eyes are roving her unwrapped figure, looking especially pleased for whatever reason.

“What?”

“Little one…” Hippolyta sighs, reaching out as if to touch her, but she pulls her hand back, as if remembering her place, and she looks the tiniest bit regretful. “You are such a beautiful butterfly.”

Martha rolls her eyes, but she’s trying and failing to hide a smile, and she doesn’t push Hippolyta away as she struggles to sit up, yanking at the lumpy bedspread so that she can sit properly on this couch. Hippolyta pulls it away in one smooth gesture, folding it and setting it aside.

“Here, Martha Kent,” she says, opening a small cupboard and surfacing with a vial of some clear liquid. “I can see you are tired. This will give you energy for a short time, but it will not disrupt your rest tonight. And it will help to settle the meal.”

Martha drinks it without question, and it tastes like nothing at all, and she thinks for a minute that Hippolyta had literally handed her a shot of plain water, but she begins to feel more awake almost immediately, and Hippolyta has begun to unpack dinner from what _looks_ like a portable oven, as ridiculous as that seems, but whatever it is, it must be 400 degrees in there, because all the dishes come out piping hot: strips of roasted meats that are still sizzling as if they’ve just been taken off the grill; warm savory pies that erupt with steam and the most delicious spinach and cheese smell when Hippolyta sinks a knife into their flaky crusts and begins to cut them into wedges; a bubbling something that looks like some sort of eggplant parm, but is actually eggplant stuffed with veal and tomatoes and topped with besamel _(Topped with what?_ Martha asks, realizing too late what a suggestive question that is, but Hippolyta doesn’t take the bait, only gives a polite reply, something about milk and eggs and flour); and a big basket of warm pita bread, fresh and fluffy like they were just baked.

“The Amazons love to eat,” Hippolyta says, shooting a knowing glance over at Martha and Dusty’s watching faces. She’s laying out a dish of roasted vegetables now, and they are not so very different than the ones Martha had served two weeks ago. “I sometimes think we spend our days training and working as hard as we do so then we can eat all the more at night.”

 _Ah, yes, all that eating at night,_ Martha thinks, but she’s too hungry to trade innuendo with a gorgeous Amazon Queen, and everything is looking so _good,_ and the smells are so exotic and spicy, completely different than the food smells she’d been surrounded by all day at the diner. Hippolyta is laying out a platter now with a whole grilled fish on it, its head and fins and tail still attached.

“When the Amazons were first created, we had nothing. The Goddesses lit a fire for us on the beach so that we could always find our way back to one another, and then we were left to forage for ourselves. On our first night, we collected many things from the tidepools: mussels, seaweed, starfish, sea urchins. But Antiope was the one who discovered the fish, and her hunger was so great, she plunged into the sea and captured them with her bare hands, one after the other. She killed them quickly and returned to the fire covered in slime, her arms full of fish, and she sat down beside the water, prepared to eat her meal raw. It was Menalippe who took the fish from her, wrapped them in leaves, and placed them into the fire to cook.

“We have improved upon the flavor since then, the spices used, the method of roasting. But no fish has ever tasted so wonderful as on that first night.”

Martha stares as Hippolyta reaches down and plucks out the fish cheek, a succulent little morsel of meat, and she offers it to Martha’s watering mouth, subtly nudging Dusty’s head away with her elbow. Her fingers are greasy, with bits of charred fish and spices smeared over her fingertips, and Martha opens her mouth, and the meat is _delicious,_ the texture is velvety and perfect, and she gives those fingers a little lick, too, because it’s just too tempting, and Hippolyta gives her a knowing smirk and goes back to unpacking, leaving Martha to lick her lips and wait for the next bit.

Hippolyta’s portable oven apparently has a cooler attached to it, too, because the next thing Martha knows, she’s setting out a bowl of glowing blue ice, and she’s placing bowls of sauces into it: hummus, tzatziki, some sort of meaty tomato sauce, and a purple fishy-smelling spread that is apparently made from fish eggs.

“The Greeks royals would eat lying down,” Hippolyta says, reaching into her oven and washing her hands, because apparently her portable oven does everything. She produces a giant plate from somewhere and places it on the table in front of Martha’s face. “They would recline like this, with their elbows. The Romans, they would lie on their bellies during their feasts, and when their stomachs were full, they would empty them, and continue feasting.

“The Amazons thought these methods to be painful, inconvenient, wasteful. We followed our own way feasting and celebrating, a way that was pleasing to the Goddesses, and to one another.”

Hippolyta lifts Martha up just slightly to rearrange the cushions on the couch, then she lies her back down, and it’s so _comfortable,_ like floating on air, no shoulder cramp or anything, and then Hippolyta is kissing her lips, and before Martha can kiss her back, she’s pulled away again.

“The Amazons do not eat alone. Even those who are not romantically joined to another must have a companion during a feast. They must serve one another, see to each others’ comfort. In this way, there is no need for slaves, as the men in Greece and Rome used. The Amazons do not need slaves to pour their drinks or serve their food or clear their tables. We are all sisters, equally blessed by the Goddesses, and we treat each other as such. Now point to me what you would like in your bread, little one.”

Martha blinks, but Hippolyta is holding an empty pita in her hand, and she is looking at her expectantly.

“This is a favorite of the Amazon army. My sister packs these often when she is wandering the wilderness. They will keep for several days when made with dried meat. But today, I have prepared a choice of fresh meat for you: lamb, veal, venison.”

Martha is already beginning to feel fairly overwhelmed, and the coffee table is practically sagging under the weight of all this food, she doesn’t even know where to look, and maybe she’ll accidentally point to something that’s not even supposed to go in a gyro, and maybe Hippolyta will be so offended, she’ll send her back to the farm to eat her pies for dinner—

“Or perhaps I will choose,” Hippolyta says after a long silence. “I will make you one, and if you do not like it, I will eat the rest.”

“Okay,” Martha says, and her voice sounds so small and uncertain, Dusty turns and gives her face an encouraging lick. Hippolyta is busily putting together the pita, and Martha takes a short respite to look around. The windows are open, and the summer island breeze is rustling through the trees, there’s a wind chime hanging somewhere, and the crickets singing their songs with their legs, and somewhere far below, there’s the sound of the ocean, and it sounds like a powerful ocean, not a calm, boring beach like they have at the lake in Smallville…

Dusty whines, and Martha turns to give him a guilty look.

“Oh—I forgot, I didn’t feed the dog before we left, I was going to—”

“Do not worry,” Hippolyta says politely, finishing up the pita and wrapping it in paper, then washing her hands and piling the plate high with other offerings from the table. “I fed him while you are asleep. He is only begging because this food is new.”

Martha gapes, then she turns and glares are her silly dog.

“Dusty, _stop._ Behave.”

The dog gives her the saddest puppy eyes she’s ever seen, then Hippolyta smiles and reaches into the magic oven and pulls out a bone.

“Here, you may have—” But that’s all the Queen manages to get out before the dog snatches the bone from her hand and bounds off, tearing out of the living room, and into the yard, apparently, because the next thing Martha knows, Dusty is outside, running around in the dark to his hearts content. 

Hippolyta speaks a low command, and the yard is lit with soft, unobtrusive lights that had been set into the ground, and now they cannot only _hear_ as Dusty chews noisily on his new bone, they can _watch_ the whole vicious attack if they so desire. Martha rolls her eyes, but Queen Hippolyta is apparently finished plating the food, and she has set it very close to Martha’s face, and Martha opens her mouth to ask where _her_ plate is, but then Hippolyta climbs over her and settles herself onto the couch behind her, so that their bodies are practically pressed up against one another, it’s then that Martha realizes there are two forks sitting on this platter, and two pitas, and enough food for five of her—or maybe enough for one of her, and one Amazon Warrior Queen…

 _“Well…_ I mean, it is fewer dishes to wash,” she hears her voice saying, and it’s because she’s distracted by the shapes she feels pressing up against her back, but she doesn’t want to say anything, and she’s tempted to push up against her a little, to reach back with her legs and tangle them with hers, to run her bare foot up along those smooth calves…

And then Hippolyta is murmuring something in another language, and Martha’s lived in Kansas long enough to know a prayer is happening, and she closes her eyes, but she can hear the stupid dog gnawing on his bone, and it’s so silly and so _loud,_ she almost laughs, and thankfully the prayer is over quickly, and Queen Hippolyta kisses her neck and picks up her fork. 

“What if some of your food falls on me?” Martha asks, picking up her own fork and going for some of the vegetables, because they look the most familiar, and then she’s going to go for some of that fish next, Hippolyta had given her an entire fillet and a tiny lemon slice.

“Falling food is the best part,” Hippolyta says, and her voice is so casual, Martha knows that _something_ is up, and she wants to twist around and look at her, but she _can’t,_ and then smooth lips are slipping down her bare arm, and a rough tongue presses up against her skin for just a second before pulling away, and Martha gives a shiver of delight, and now she understands why this way of eating is so popular—the Amazons probably just have to push the table of food away a few inches, and then they’re in the perfect position for…

“Do you like it?”

And Martha remembers that she’s eating something, some sort of food—roasted vegetables, zucchini and tomatoes, and it’s hot and soft and delicious, and there’s a sly arm slipping over her torso to get another forkful of food, and she’s going for some of the fish egg spread, and Martha will have to try that next, because it looks so strange, like some sort of sherbet…

“It’s nice. Sorry, I was eating.” 

The body behind her presses just a little bit closer, and then there’s a low, contented sigh that gives her the shivers.

“The Goddesses believed meals should be a time for music and quiet, a time to be entertained and indulge in pleasure. But the Amazons were not born into pillared halls and perfumed baths: we labored for all that we had, and when the time came when we had such plenty that we could celebrate and feast, these were noisy affairs, loud and cheerful and unashamed.”

Martha dabs her fork into the purple fish paste and gives it a tentative lick. It’s salty and creamy, less fishy than she’d been expecting. 

“Are you trying to tell me I should be less ashamed?” Martha says, setting her fork aside and picking up her gyro now, angling it slightly, trying to figure out how to get the whole thing into her mouth, but _gracefully._

“No, only—it is all right if you wish to speak during the meal. Or if you do not wish to speak. Try the corner, darling.”

Queen Hippolyta is tearing pita bread into small pieces and dipping them into the various sauces now, like the elegant, refined woman she is, and Martha makes a face, but she pushes the corner of the gyro into her mouth and takes a big bite, and suddenly her mouth is full of the best thing she’s ever eaten: spicy meat and fresh tomatoes and cucumbers and soft pita and olives and cheese and some sort of creamy sauce that is just the right amount of tangy to set the whole thing off, and she’s moaning, she’s actually moaning and it’s embarrassing, but she can’t help it, it’s so _good,_ she wants to lie here eat this for the rest of her life…

She doesn’t remember how it happens, but a little while later, the entire gyro is gone, and her belly is full and content, and she’s lying down properly now, and Dusty is curled up on the floor, and the food is put away, and that magic energy water must be wearing off, because she’s beginning to doze, and Hippolyta is carrying her again, carrying her up the stairs, and laying her down onto a soft bed, and Martha wants to tell her to stay, but by the time she opens her mouth to whisper that beautiful name, the door is closed, and those soft footsteps are long gone, and Martha’s fallen into the sweet embrace of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Thanks for reading! It keeps snowing where I live and I keep putting off the trip to the grocery store, so I've been eating quarantine rations for the last week or so (but hey, it's food, right?).
> 
> Fun Fact II: Don't forget Martha did a double shift at the diner before this, so she is T.I.R.E.D. I think she'll be pretty disappointed in the morning when she realizes that she wasted a whole night of nighttime activities with her hot goddess girlfriend because she fell asleep!
> 
> Fun Fact III: The plane was flying about 10,000 mph. It's _fast_.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: These two are still pretty awkward around each other, it's only the second date! (Plus one of them is dead on her feet). But we'll have some more sweet moments in the morning, and we'll also find out where on earth they are.
> 
> Fun Fact V: I think Hippolyta can tell Martha's a little out of it, and it makes her nervous, and she tends to tells long stories when she's nervous. Honestly, no one in their right mind talks about how the Romans would vomit their food during banquets on a second date unless they're _super_ nervous!
> 
> Fun Fact VI: Speaking of which, Romans were disgusting! I found an article about Roman feasts and I'll link it on my tumblr so you can also be disgusted with a bunch of gluttons from 2000 years ago, haha.
> 
> Fun Fact VII: Anyway, thanks for reading! I know it's a little light on actual content, but the food bits really ran away from me. Next chapter, we'll explore Hippolyta's house and island, and maybe some other things too :)


	16. Good Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

Martha Kent opens her eyes.

The world is bright and blue and empty, like the sky—in fact, it _is_ the sky, and Martha sits up in panic, thinking for a moment that she must’ve passed out in the yard, or maybe gotten kidnapped again…

But no, she’s lying on a very comfortable bed, and the bedspread is soft and silky, royal purple embroidered with golden thread, and Martha smooths her hand over it, trying to see the pattern, and it’s a picture of a sunrise over an ocean, and a bird, and a fishing boat, and there are other images: animals, and people, and flowers, and it’s all so detailed and beautifully done, it looks more like a painting than a quilt, and Martha almost feels guilty for touching it. 

The sound of Dusty’s nails clicking on hardwood interrupts her guilty thoughts, and she gingerly pushes the beautiful bedspread aside, looking around at the strange room. She’s in what appears to be a loft, and not a big one, but the ceiling is a glass dome, letting in the light of the morning. There’s a railing beside the bed, and when Martha peers over, she’s staring down into the tiny living room from last night—there was a last night, she remembers now, and there was a mountain of food, and Queen Hippolyta’s body pressed up against hers as they ate dinner together, and…

And she is there, below, cooking something over the stove, and the windows are all open, and she can hear the birds, and the wind over the grass and the trees, and Dusty panting as he gazes up at Hippolyta’s face, begging for a taste of whatever it is she’s cooking, and she’s murmuring something about being quiet, and then she raises her head and catches Martha’s face peering through the railing.

And she smiles. And it’s the most beautiful thing in the world, the most beautiful sight in the world, and for a moment, Martha can't breathe.

“Good morning.”

Martha forces herself to let go of where she’d been clutching at railing, and she manages to smile back.

“Hi.”

Hippolyta’s smile widens, and now she looks amused, but she doesn’t comment, only nods toward the foot of the bed.

“There’s a robe for you, if you like.”

Martha glances over, and there _is_ a robe, royal blue with silver trimming, the style matching the comfortable toga-looking thing that Hippolyta is wearing, and all at once, Martha is aware of the fact that she’s wearing an old t-shirt and her underwear, and she doesn’t know if she should feel embarrassed or not that the Queen apparently took off her pants before tucking her into bed—or whatever it was that happened last night, because she can’t remember much of anything after her head hit the pillow.

She looks over her shoulder, but Hippolyta has gone back to the stove, and so Martha slips off her t-shirt and pulls the tunic on over her head, letting out an audible gasp of delight as the cool fabric slips over her skin.

“Oh, my _God,”_ she breathes, tugging at her hair, running her palms down over the material. She worked at Sears for long enough to know that this outfit didn’t come from any department store, and it probably can't even compete with those fancy designer shops in Metropolis.

_If only the old people in Smallville could see me now, or even the Justice League..._

Martha grins to herself, then reaches down, because there's a pair of slippers at the foot of the bed, and they look warm and fuzzy and remarkably, disappointingly man-made.

“The Amazons do not often wear slippers,” Hippolyta’s voice says, and Martha glances over the railing to see her watching her, those shrewd eyes missing none of her disappointment. “It is often sandals, boots, or bare. But my daughter’s wife insists on them, often complaining that her human feet are too cold. I thought perhaps you would need them, also.”

“Well, I’ll try them,” Martha says, slipping in her feet, and wondering how silly she looks, with this royal robe, and these fuzzy, faux-fur slippers. She gives her foot a little wiggle, then ducks her head to make her way down the stairs. Dusty bounds up toward her, and she gives him an impatient wave so she can move past his big, furry, slobbery body. “You really didn’t skimp for space in here, did you?”

Hippolyta flashes her a smile that is almost shy as she steps over to wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, crossing her arms.

“Well, it is not usually so crowded in here, little one,” she says, and Martha crosses her arms right back at her, stopping a few steps up so that she can stare down at the warrior Queen.

“Are you saying I’m _big?”_ she says, pretending to be offended. It would be easier to pretend if she could keep a stern expression on her face, but it seems for some reason that she can’t stop smiling. 

“No, darling,” Hippolyta says, her voice a low, seductive murmur. “What I am saying is, I don’t often have company.”

Martha blushes, but she takes a tiny step forward, and Hippolyta moves closer as well, and the next thing she knows, they’re both moving in, and she’s clutching at the railing with her little human hands, and a goddess is reaching out to cup her cheeks, to touch her lips with her own lips, and her hands are warm against her skin, and then those long fingers— _God,_ those fingers—are combing through her hair, and her touch is so tender, so unabashedly tender, Martha can feel her knees shaking, like she’s about to turn into jelly right here, or whatever the saying is…

When they pull apart, Martha’s woozy and lightheaded, but Hippolyta rests her hands lightly against her shoulders, steadying her, and she’s looking at her with that look that just goes right through her, like she knows exactly what Martha’s thinking, and she’s never heard anything so charming and delightful in her life, and Martha doesn’t know whether to slap her or kiss her again.

“Are you hungry?”

Martha doesn’t hear her the first time, and Hippolyta gently repeats the question, adding, 

“I brought ingredients down from the main house—I know you humans enjoy large breakfasts on the weekend.”

Martha finally walks down the rest of the stairs, almost tripping into her dog, who was standing directly behind Hippolyta’s tall figure. His tail is wagging at the word _breakfast,_ and Martha frowns at him _._

“I don’t need a big breakfast, I just want another one of those things.”

Hippolyta stares, and Martha stare back, waving an aimless hand, trying to find the words in her kiss-numbed brain.

“Those things… the sandwich things from yesterday.”

“Ahh, you wish for another gyro.”

“Is that really how they’re pronounced?”

“Of course. How do your people pronounce it?”

“With a ‘g’, like gyrate. Like Elvis.”

Hippolyta blinks at her, tilting her head just the tiniest bit to the side, as if she's not sure if she's joking or not. But Martha just shrugs, her arms still crossed, because she's not going to _demonstrate,_ and Hippolyta seemingly relents, but she's grinning and probably wondering if she actually invited this fool into her tiny house. Martha reaches out to pat her hand, then she pushes past her dog to look out the window, and Hippolyta busies herself with opening one of the cupboards, which turns out to be a lined with glowing blue Themysciran ice.

“I will also prepare a drink for you,” she says, pulling down chilled, wrapped platters of food. “A gyro will be such a greasy meal, and so early.”

“It’s not _that_ early, what time…?” Martha begins, but she stops because she’s spotted her bedspread, the quilt from her own bed lying across the couch, and she sees how the pillows are arranged, as if—

“...Lyta, did you sleep on the couch last night?”

Hippolyta glances over from where the gyro meat is already crackling happily in the frying pan.

“Ahh, yes, you fell asleep before I could ask to sleep with you.”

Martha makes a face, then reaches down to pick up the quilt by the corners, going almost automatically to fold it. She knows she’s frowning, but doesn’t like it, the idea that she spent all night sleeping in the most luxurious bed she’s ever seen, while this Queen of all Queens was down here, sleeping on the couch with this ugly green quilt from her Kansas farmhouse.

“You don’t have to ask, you know,” she says at last, staring deliberately at her hands. “You can always sleep with me.”

She can feel Hippolyta looking at her, but neither of them speak for a moment. Martha smooths her hands over the folded quilt, and the old fabric feels rough against her palms.

“I do enjoy sleeping with you,” Hippolyta says, but her voice is more cautious than coy. “But I will always ask, little one.”

Martha sighs, half-heartedly throwing up her hands, and she turns away to look blindly at the shelves set into the walls, glancing over the few dozen books without really seeing the titles.

“I mean… _God,_ I’m so—I should’ve never agreed to that stupid dinner shift,” she mutters, almost more to herself than to the woman who’s pulling two hot rounds of pita bread from her oven-cupboard. “I wasn’t even supposed to be _working_ yesterday, but Nell twisted my arm—”

“Darling, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s _not,_ you made an effort, came all this way to see me, and I just—I couldn’t even stay _awake,_ and now we’ve wasted a whole night.”

She looks miserable and she knows it. Hippolyta has come up behind her, and she smells delicious, like spicy meat and warm bread.

“Wasted?” Her voice is soft. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we should’ve… we should’ve been sleeping together. We should’ve been together. I should’ve been awake, awake for you.”

“Little one…” And those strong arms wrap around her from behind, pulling her close. “We don’t have to make love every night we are together.”

Martha reaches down to clasp those muscular forearms, and leans back a little to nestle her head underneath Hippolyta's chin.

“...don’t we?”

“No. Sometimes it is enough to simply spend time with one another.” Soft lips kiss the side of her head, and Martha smothers a smile.

“No, it’s not.”

“No?”

“No, we should—it’s a waste if we don’t. A waste of—of potential.” Martha’s babbling now, and she knows it, but there’s a giant goddess warrior Queen hugging her, and it’s the best feeling in the world.

“I see. So you humans believe pleasure is a thing that must be experienced as often as possible.”

Martha stares up at the bookshelves. Or maybe she’s just rolling her eyes.

“And what is it that you Amazons believe in? _Celibacy?”_

“Some of them do, and they lead meaningful and fulfilling lives without the pleasures of the flesh,” Hippolyta replies, her voice sounding just a little bit too innocent. “But lucky for certain lustful little humans, I am not one of them.”

Martha lets out an indignant shriek, but her cheeks are flaming, and Hippolyta is laughing a hearty laugh at her, and Martha breaks away from those stone-hard arms, and waggles a finger in that breathtakingly beautiful face, trying to scold her, but she’s just too damn _attractive,_ and Martha is forced to give up, and she settles for a big wet kiss instead, that’ll teach this teasing goddess woman not to call her names…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Happy V-Day in the parts of the world where it is still V-Day! I almost didn't get this written because I was distracted by new DC content :P I loved the new glimpses of the Amazons we got, but I am increasingly needing to see the Amazons _celebrating_ something for once! Let's see some feast days! ~~and goddess orgies~~
> 
> Fun Fact II: This chapter is a little short than usual, but I hope you liked it anyway. There was supposed to be some smut after breakfast, but I guess that will just have to happen in the next chapter, huh. :D
> 
> Fun Fact III: Since Hippolyta had all of these ridiculous mansions in the last story, I thought it would be nice to switch it up a bit and give her a tiny house in this story. I think she'd want to be as unobtrusive as possible, and since this is clearly her own place to just chill, it's not like she needs a lot of room for hosting (plus there's another house on the island for that, more on that later).
> 
> Fun Fact IV: It's been a long time since I've heard the word gyro out loud, but I'm pretty sure I've heard it both ways, although yee-roh is apparently correct. 
> 
> Fun Fact V: Anyway, thanks for reading!! I hope this helped to start off your Monday/week right :) Stay safe and healthy and sane and all that!
> 
> P.S. I need to reply to reviewssssssssssss and I promise I will do that! Thank you to people who've left reviews, and sorry for replies being late, I've just been swamped with work! But it's on my to-do list! ~~just like Queen Hippolyta is on Martha Kent's~~


	17. The Pavilion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast and a show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There be smut.

One moment, she’s kissing a goddess, and there are a hundred thoughts racing through her mind, imagining the possibilities, steeling herself for when her lips are free again, and she’ll have to speak, because when that happens, she’d like to ask some questions, say some things, maybe make a particular request that goes along the lines of, _What do you say we climb back up those stairs, and you come with me this time, and I promise I’ll stay awake, and maybe we can—maybe you’ll let me…_

But the next moment, Queen Hippolyta is pulling away and gazing down at her, and Martha feels herself leaning forward just a little, her neck stretching out like the silly goose she is, as if that will make the kissing start all over again, and she’s panting, eyes fixed on those elegant clavicles, and she’s so close, Martha can feel her warm breath on her cheek, and it makes her gulp for air—and _that_ probably looks unattractive—and she forces herself to take a deep breath, then she opens her mouth, but she makes the mistake of raising her head, because she takes one look into those teasing blue eyes, and that familiar rush of nervous embarrassment drenches her from head to toe, and her tongue has gotten all twisty and stuttery, and the next thing she knows, those soft lips are pressing against her burning cheek, and then a goddess is handing her a pitcher of hot water and sending her outside.

She doesn’t want to go outside. But when Queen Hippolyta hands you a pitcher and sends you outside, that’s what ends up happening, somehow.

It’s the first weekend of July, and it would be hot, dusty, and lush on the farm, full of blazing sunlight and ripe crops and growing things, but here, wherever _here_ is, it’s comfortable, almost cool in the shade of the trees. Martha shakes her head, shaking off the buzz from those kisses, and takes a good look at her surroundings for the first time. She hadn’t gotten much of a look at the island last night, and even in daylight, there’s not much visibility: the land is steep and heavily forested, terrible for farming, a sheer contrast to her flat-as-a-pancake state. 

Hippolyta had directed her toward a tightly packed sand trail that winds its way toward the cliffs that overlook the sea, and Martha stumbles forward, clutching tight to the pitcher, following as the path dips down, out of sight from the little house. Dusty decides at the very last moment to follow her, kicking up dirt, taking his own zig-zag path through the trees.

“Dusty, watch _out!”_ Martha yells, because knowing the silly animal, he’s going to barrel right into trouble, like a hornet nest, or a snake hole, or some sort of poisonous jellyfish or starfish out on the beach, and the last thing she needs is to spend her weekend taking care of the _dog._ But Dusty keeps running as if she’d never said a thing, and Martha rolls her eyes and goes back to focusing on her own path, because she doesn’t need any _human_ accidents either.

The forest turns abruptly to an open meadow just before the cliffs drop off to the beach, as if the trees didn’t want to risk falling over the edge. Martha takes a deep breath, and she can smell the sea from here, briny and sharp. She doesn’t mind the ocean, but she’s not exactly fond of it, either, and she’s relieved when she sees what looks like a little covered picnic area at the end of the path, barely visible amongst the grass.

It’s a longer walk than she was anticipating, but luckily, the pitcher isn’t any heavier than her usual diner trays, and the gentle quiet over this place is a welcome contrast to the hectic bustle of the diner. The farm is quiet, too—sometimes _too_ quiet, with Clark gone, but this is a different kind of quiet, a peaceful quiet. It’s only now that Martha realizes just how loud the forest was back there, with its singing birds and rustling trees and rushing rivers of the woods. Here, there’s just the soft murmur of overgrown grass, the distant lap of the waves against the shore, the nostalgic cries of scavaging seagulls… 

Dusty tears past her and into the picnic pavilion, his loud panting and wagging tail interrupting her poetic thoughts. Martha curses and just barely keeps from dropping her water pitcher.

“Next time, you are staying _home,”_ she grumbles, but she hurries forward, looking up as she approaches the little building. It’s subtle and small, not much bigger than the tents that the major vendors would set up at the farmer’s market, but its arches and pillars are beautifully carved in the Ancient Greek style, like something out of the history books, and it looks strangely at home in this place, on this cliff next to the beach.

Martha steps inside, feeling her hands clutch a little tighter at the pitcher. The space inside feels solemn and holy, and she could swear her footsteps echo as she moves forward. The ceiling is domed, with what looks like the constellations carved into the perfect semi-circle, and there are curtains cleverly hidden behind each pillar, delicate and milky and sheer, as if the Queen comes down often to lie inside this very space, and perhaps, she draws the curtains to hide herself from the outside world, or to discourage the sting of sand, or the salty ocean breeze, or the beach flies…

Or maybe they’re for other, less innocent reasons.

There are two giant lawn chairs underneath the awning, chairs that are big enough for Amazon giantesses, and a low table that is almost the same size. Martha puts the kettle down, then eases herself onto one of the chairs, allowing herself to relax a little after her hike. The chair frame—if it can be called that, it looks more like a plush futon than anything—seems to be made of the same wood as the forests surrounding them, but the cushions are comfortable, and Martha closes her eyes, snuggling in a little deeper. She could almost take another nap right here, with the sounds of the sea, and the warm breeze, and the threat of a sunburn kept at bay…

But Dusty is panting, and her stomach is growling, and she remembers that there’s an attractive goddess warrior Queen who’s supposed to be bringing her food and a drink, and that… that’s worth staying awake for. _At least, it should be,_ Martha thinks a little sourly, cursing Nell Potter’s name for the some dozenth time in twenty-four hours. Really, she should just quit that waitressing job. She doesn’t need the money anymore, thanks to that fund Bruce Wayne set up for her. She should just retire, hire some people to look after the farm, and spend the rest of her days traveling, doing all the things she was never able to do when she was a farmer’s wife, a Kansas girl, a normal person—she can go to California, sit on the beach, listen to the waves, dream her dreams, her old, normal dreams...

The cushion dips just a little bit to the side, and she opens her eyes to see a very not-normal person sitting next to her on the couch, peering down at her. Martha blinks for a moment, because _that’s_ not a sight you see every day.

“Darling… your work yesterday has spent your energy,” Hippolyta murmurs, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind Martha’s ear. Her eyes are concerned, and Martha has to bite her bottom lip to keep from grinning, because she looks so _good_ like this, all caring and worried about her.

“I still have a little energy left, you know,” she replies too boldly, too loudly for this sacred place. Hippolyta doesn’t react, only turns away and reaches for the pitcher, apparently about to pour a few cups of tea so then they can drink and meditate on the morning. But Martha tugs on her elbow, scooting a little closer, so that her soft belly is resting against the goddess’ hip, because she has _other_ plans, and none of them are quiet.

_“Lyta...”_

“Hmm?”

Martha reaches out with both arms, and the Queen glances down at her, taking her focus away from the spoonful of honey in her hand, and she raises an eyebrow at her antics—but her eyes are twinkling, and Martha whines.

“Come _here.”_

Those non-human eyes soften, and the tea is quickly forgotten as Hippolyta unfurls her body in one smooth, athletic motion, carefully lowering herself down onto the couch beside her. Martha reaches up, resting her trembling palm against that cold cheek, those sharp cheekbones, and she should say something, but she doesn’t want to say anything, she just wants—she wants… she slides her hand down a little, so that she can brush her thumb over those soft lips, so that she can run her fingertips over that strong jawline… and then she pushes forward a little, sliding her arm around her neck, sinking her fingers into that luscious mane of hair, and then those lips are on hers, kissing her like it’s their first time, and this sofa-chair is so damn comfortable, she can feel herself sinking into it as Hippolyta gently presses her down, her arms wrapping around her trembling body, and all she wants is for this goddess creature to climb on, to press fully into her, to loom over her like the predator she is, taking her bite by bite like the prey _she_ is, and the rest of the world can wait until they’re done and satisfied…

“Little one…” There’s a note of reproach in Hippolyta’s voice, but Martha’s too far gone to care much. 

“Lyta,” she mumbles in reply, and the lips against hers smile.

“Are you sure—now? Before the morning meal?”

“Oh, _please,”_ Martha dismisses, waving a hand that neither of them can see because of the kissing. “We’re on vacation. We’re allowed to eat dessert for breakfast.”

Wet teeth bite playfully at her bottom lip, and when Hippolyta’s face looms over hers, she’s smiling, and her eyes are dark, her pupils blown wide with lust, for _her,_ Martha realizes with a small note of wonder—never mind their other nights together, it’s still _bizarre_ to her that this creature somehow gets aroused by a her old, bony human body—but maybe Amazons are aroused easily.

“What are you thinking about, little one?” Hippolyta asks, and her voice is so low and amused, Martha can’t answer for a moment.

_“Nothing,”_ she replies, reaching up to busy herself with grasping at soft cotton, but she doesn’t know how on earth to take off this tunic thing, it has no buttons, no zippers or anything, and she grasps helplessly at its collar for a moment before forgoing it altogether and giving her goddess lover a little push in the southern direction, and for all of the Queenly scolding about someone being lustful, she doesn’t say a word of complaint, just shimmies her way down, deft fingers loosening the belt around Martha’s waist, and cool hands unfolding the material of the nightgown, exposing her bare skin to the entire underside of the pavilion, and the whole sky directly above this specific cliff, and…

“Ly… Lyta.” Soft lips are kissing their way down her sternum now, and Martha can barely breathe. “That house, the one you got the—things, the food things. Is there anyone...?”

“No, little one,” Queen Hippolyta’s voice says, and _she’s_ not having any trouble with her tongue, if the way she’s licking over Martha’s nipples is any indication— _God, that feels so good, it feels so..._ “There is no one else here, only the two of us. And the island is well-protected.”

Martha’s mouth is already open, her head pressed deep into the pillows, her back beginning to arch, and Hippolyta hasn’t even dipped below her waist.

“And those protections…”

“Yes, darling?”

“Do they protect from… satellites and things? Flying things?”

“I rather like this,” Hippolyta murmurs, and Martha squirms as she brushes her fingers over her belly button, nuzzling her soft stomach and making her giggle. “The Amazons do not have these. They are so strange. A little hole that goes nowhere.”

_“Lyta,”_ Martha whines, her hips starting to thrust up, push forward, wanting something _else—_ but she needs an answer, she’s already half naked and exposed, and that’s damning enough, but...

“It is protected,” Hippolyta says, her solemn voice muffled by the sensitive skin underneath her belly button. “We are hidden from the outside world. The power that hides Themyscira is the same power that hides this island. You needn’t worry, darling—there are no eyes upon you but mine.”

Martha opens her mouth to say something— _Thank you,_ maybe, or something more flirty—but Hippolyta chooses this precise moment to bury her head between her legs... and all that comes out is a low, throaty, and very _needy_ moan...

* * *

This goes on for a while.

The first time her back arches up off the soft cushions, she’s aware of the sound of her voice, the embarrassing sound of her cries echoing back to her, but Queen Hippolyta urges her to speak her mind— _Say what you mean, little one, tell me everything—_ and she does, again and again.

And _again._

_There’s so many, there’s so many,_ she babbles to no one, and there’s still more after that, until it’s over at last, and she’s grasping weakly at the wonderful creature between her legs, pulling her forward, and she regrets it even as she does it, because she _might_ have had another one in her, it’s entirely possible, but she’s already gasping for air as is, her limbs sprawled gracelessly across this outdoor sofa, and she hasn’t even had breakfast yet. Hippolyta bends and presses a wet kiss to her cheek, and Martha wraps her arms around her neck, pulling her down so they can lie side by side, and she buries her sweaty face against soft cotton, because she never did get that tunic off, and now she’s so tired, she can’t even...

When she finally opens her eyes, they’re lying together on this chair, and Queen Hippolyta is gazing back at her, and their hands are entwined, and she’s pressing light little kisses over her fingertips. Martha blinks lazily back at her, then she giggles and pulls their hands closer to her mouth so then _she_ can get some fingertip kisses in, too.

“You taste wonderful, darling,” Hippolyta says calmly, absolutely shameless, as if she tells people this every day—and she probably does. Martha makes a face, but she stops kissing those long fingers. “If only I could eat you every morning for the rest of time.”

“You could, you know,” Martha says, but her eyes are still fixed on those fingers, and she bites her lip, then pushes her face forward a little so she can give them a tentative lick. It doesn’t taste like anything special, certainly not something anyone would want to eat every morning for the rest of their lives, but maybe Amazons have different taste buds than humans.

Hippolyta has reached out to brush Martha’s hair out of her eyes, and she looks so peaceful and contented, Martha almost doesn’t want to move, but she forces herself up onto one elbow, pressing her free hand up against the Queen’s shoulder, pushing her down onto her back, and she tries to climb awkwardly onto her, but she has none of Hippolyta’s grace or experience, and the resigned look on the goddess’ face as she realizes what Martha’s trying to initiate is practically soul-crushing.

“No, little one.”

Martha pouts, but she retreats, like the meek little human she is, sliding back to her own place, her own side of the chair.

“...why?”

Hippolyta sits up in one smooth motion and finishes pouring herself the cup of tea that she’d started all that time ago. She hands the cup to Martha, and she takes it, sitting up slightly to sip at it.

“Because you need your energy, darling,” Hippolyta says, waving a hand at the table, and ignoring the way Martha jumps when flames rise up to the surface. “Besides, I am fond of this chair.”

“You have another one right over there,” Martha points out, but the smell of her gyro warming up is sending her stomach growling all over again, and she _is_ hungry, and she can still feel the weakness in her limbs, half from pleasure, half from fatigue. Hippolyta looks down at her and grins, sliding her arms around Martha’s waist.

“I do not want you to make love to me in a lawn chair,” she purrs, as if they hadn’t just spent the better part of the morning making love in a lawn chair. “No—the first time you taste an Amazon, it will be in a soft bed, with low candles, perfumed sheets, oiled skin.”

Martha stares. She opens her mouth and tries to say something, but all that comes out is an unattractive sound that’s halfway between a grunt and a moan.

“And some restraints.”

Someone’s cup of tea almost goes flying, and it’s not Hippolyta’s.

“...what? Why—why do you need restraints? Why do you have— _who_ needs restraints?”

Hippolyta reaches over and plucks Martha’s gyro from the fire, sets it onto a plate, and casually hands it to her.

“Just as a precaution. I do not want to have to worry about crushing you, little one.”

_Queen Hippolyta lying naked in a giant bed, her arms lounging up over her head, wrists tied, head thrown back, eyes closed, moaning in pleasure, her strong legs kept apart with a spreader bar..._

“I see this idea pleases you.”

Someone’s plate of gyro almost goes flying, and it’s not Hippolyta’s.

“Wha?” Her tongue is all twisted up again, which doesn’t bode well for this fabled night they’re discussing. “I don’t… I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

Hippolyta raises an eyebrow, but she just gives her a smile that looks more like a smirk, and she sips at her tea.

“I knew from the moment I saw you,” she says, her voice just the slightest bit smug as she reaches into the picnic basket that she’d apparently brought over, and pulls out an even smaller basket of what looks like honey-drizzled donut holes. She puts one onto Martha’s greasy gyro plate without asking, and pops one into her own mouth.

_“What_ did you know?” Martha asks, trying to make her voice sound wary and suspicious, but she’s too happy to pull it off, and she knows it. Hippolyta licks her fingers and wraps an arm around Martha’s bony shoulders, pulling her close, and kissing the corner of her mouth with lips that taste like honey.

“I knew that you would be _perfect.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Anyways, someone's vacation is off to a nice start! :D ~~where's my vacation~~
> 
> Fun Fact II: I can't decide if the Amazons do in fact have deep frying since they have donut holes, or if they just cook their donuts without deep frying (in a magic Themysciran air fryer, maybe?).
> 
> Fun Fact III: In the next chapter, we'll maybe explore the big house, and we'll definitely explore the big house's hot tub. :D
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Anyway, thanks for reading! I hope you all are staying safe.


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